r.  X 


-t^-^  ^-  -t^.  -^Tt^-^^-^^ti^ 


--^ 


JEAN    INGELOW'S    POEMS, 


JJcan  Jlngelotu's  HEn'tings. 


OFF    THE    SKELLIGS.    A  Novel $1.75 

STORIES    TOLD    TO    A    CHILD.     First  Series 1.25 

STORIES    TOLD    TO    A    CHILD.     Second  Series 1.25 

STUDIES    FOR    STORIES 1.25 

A    SISTER'S    BYE-HOURS 1-25 

MOPSA    THE    FAIRY 1.2s 

POEMS.     Red-Line  Edition.     Illustrated 450 

THE    ILLUSTRATED    SONGS    OF    SEVEN 2.50 

FATED  TO    BE    FREE      A   Novel 1.7S 


-4'    ■■ 


/^y  ^^^^^^-^^ /^^^^ 


M^:^  J  ^l/.^^ 


-jrxj 


C.  K. 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


JEAN    INGELOW. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 

1878. 


author's    edition. 


CAMBRIDGE  : 
TRESS    OF    JOHN    WILSON    AND    SON. 


LIBRARY 


po  UNIVERSITY  OF  C/.LIFORNU 

^P  SANTA  BARBARA 

Ai 
1818 


©et)icati0n. 


GEORGE    K.    INGELOW. 

YOUR     LOVING    SISTER 

OFFERS    YOU    THESE    POEMS,    PARTLY    AS 

AN     EXPRESSION     OF     HER     AFFECTION,     PARTLY     FOR     THB 

PLEASURE    OF    CONNECTING    HER    EFFORT 

WITH    YOUR    NAME. 


Kettsington,  June,  1S63. 


CONTENTS. 


POEM  S. 

PAGE 

Divided i 

Honors.  —  Part  1 3 

Honors.  —  Part  II 7 

Requiescat  in  Pace 13 

Supper  at  the  Mill 15 

Scholar  and  Carpenter    ig 

The  Star's  Monument 24 

A  Dead  Year 37 

Reflections  written  for  the  Portfolio  Society 39 

The  Letter  L 40 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire  (1571) 49 

Afternoon  at  a  Parsonage 52 

Songs  of  Seven  : 

Seven  times  One.  —  Exultation 56 

Seven  times  Two.  —  Romance 56 

Seven  times  Tliree.  —  Love 57 

Seven  times  Four.  —  Maternity 58 

Seven  times  Five.  —  Widowhood 58 

.Seven  times  Six. — Giving  in  Marriage 58 

Seven  times  Seven.  —  Longing  for  Home 59 

A  Cottage  in  a  Chine 60 

Pehsephone 61 

A  Sea  Song 63 

Brothers,  and  a  Sermon 63 

A  Wedding  Song 76 

The  Four  Bridges 77 

A  Mother  showing  the  Portrait  of  her  Child go 

Strife  and  Peace 92 


CO.VTE.VTS. 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM,    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

PAGE 

The  Dreams  that  came  Tkue 97 

Songs  on  the  Voices  of  Birds: 

Introduction.  —  Child  and  Boatman 106 

The  Nightingale  heard  by  the  Unsatisfied  Heart 107 

Sand  Martins 107 

A  Poet  in  his  Youth,  and  the  Cuckoo  Bird 108 

A  Raven  in  a  White  Chine no 

The  Warbling  of  Blackbirds iii 

Sea-Mews  in  Winter  Time in 

Laurance 112 

Songs  of  the  Night  Watches: 

Introductorj'. — Apprenticed 130 

The  First  Watch  —  Tired 13X 

The  Middle  Watch 133 

The  Morning  Watch 135 

Concluding  Song  of  DawTi 133 

A  Story  of  Doom 136 

Contrasted  Songs : 

Sailing  beyond  Seas 182 

Remonstrance 182 

Song  for  the  Night  of  Christ's  Resurrection 183 

Song  of  Margaret 185 

Song  of  the  Going  Away 186 

A  Lily  and  a  Lute 186 

Gladys  and  her  Island 189 

Songs  with  Preludes  : 

Wedlock 204 

Regret ... 206 

Lamentation 206 

Dominion , 207 

Friendship 209 

Winstanley 210 


CONTENTS. 


THE    MONITIONS    OF   THE    UNSEEN,   AND    POEMS 
OF    LOVE    AND    CHILDHOOD. 

PAGE 

The  Monitions  of  the  Unseen 217 

A  Birthday  Walk 228 

Not  in  Vain  I  Waited 22S 

A  Gleaning  Song 229 

With  a  Diamond 229 

Fancy 230 

Compensation 230 

Looking  Down 230 

Married  Lovers 230 

A  Winter  Song 231 

Binding  Sheaves     . 232 

Work 232 

Wishing 232 

To 233 

On  the  Borders  of  Cannock  Chase 233 

The  Mariner's  Cave 233 

A  Reverie  . 239 

Defton  Wood 240 

The  Snowdrop  Monument  (in  Lichfield  Cathedral) 240 

An  Ancient  Chess   King 241 

Comfort  in  the  Night 242 

Though  all  Great  Deeds 242 

The  Long  White  Seam 242 

An  Old  Wife's  Song 243 

Cold  and  Quiet 244 

A  Snow  Mountain 244 

Sleep 244 

Promising 245 

Love 245 

Poems  written  on  the  Deaths  of  three  Children: 

Henry,  aged  eiglit  years 246 

Samuel,  aged  nine  years 24S 

Katie,  aged  five  years 249 


CONTENTS. 


The  Two  Margarets:  fagb 

I.  Margaret  by  the  Mere  Side ^S' 

II.  Margaret  in  the  Xebec 257 


Notes ^7° 


POEMS.. 


P  O  E  M  S. 


DIVIDED. 

^  An  empty  sky,  a  world  of  heather, 

Purple  of  foxglove,  yellow  of  broom  ; 
We  two  among  them  wading  together, 
Shaking  out  honey,  treading  per- 
fume. 

Crowds  of  bees  are  giddy  with  clover, 
Crowds  of  grasshoppers  skip  at  our 
feet. 
Crowds  of  larks  at  their  matins  hang 
over. 
Thanking  the  Lord  for  a  life  so  sweet. 

Flusheth  the  rise  with  her  purple  favor, 
Gloweth  the  cleft  with  her  golden 
ring, 

'Tvvixtthe  two  brown  butterflies  waver, 
Lightly  settle,  and  sleepily  swing. 

We  two  walk  till  the  purple  dieth 

And  short  dry  grass   under   foot   is 
brown, 
But  one  little  streak  at  a  distance  lieth 
Green   like  a  ribbon  to  prank  the 
down. 


Over  the  grass  we  stepped  unto  it, 
And  God  He  knoweth  how  blithe  we 
were ! 
Never  a  voice  to  bid  us  eschew  it : 
Hey  the  green  ribbon  that  showed  so 
fair! 


Hey  the  green  ribbon !  we  kneeled  be- 
side it, 
We    parted    the    grasses   dewy   and 
sheen  ; 
Drop  over  drop  there  filtered  and  slided 
A  tiny  bright  beck  that  trickled  be- 
tween. 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  sweetly  it  sung  to  us. 
Light  was  our  talk  as  of  faSry  bells  — 

Faery  wedding-bells  faintly  rung  to  us 
Down  in  their  fortunate  parallels. 

Hand  in  hand,  while  the  sun  peered 
over. 
We  lapped  the  grass  on  that  young- 
ling spring ;    , 
Swept  back  its  rushes,   smoothed  its 
clover, 
And  said,   "  Let  us  follow  it  west- 
ering." 


A  dappled  sky,  a  world  of  meadows. 
Circling  above  us  the  black  rooks  fly 

Forward,    backward ;    lo,    their    dark 
shadows 
Flit  on  the  blossoming  tapestry  — 

Flit  on  the  beck,  for  her  long  grass 
parteth 
As  hair  from  a  maid's  bright   eyes 
blown  back  ; 
And,  lo,  the  sun  like  a  lover  darteth 
His  flattering  smile  on  her  wayward 
track. 


DIVIDED. 


Sing    on !    we    sing    in    the    glorious 
weather 

Till  one  steps  over  the  tiny  strand, 
So  narrow,  in  sooth,  that  still  together 

On  either  brink  we  go  hand  in  hand. 

The  beck  grows  wider,  the  hands  must 

sever. 

On  either  margin,  our  songs  all  done, 

We  move  apart,  while  she  singeth  ever. 

Taking  the  course   of  the   stooping 

sun. 

'  He  prays,  "  Came,  over"  -;:  I  may  not 
follow ; 
I   cry,   "Return" — but   he    cannot 
come : 
We  speak,  we  laugh,  but  with  voices 
hollow ; 
Our  hands  are  hanging,  our  hearts 
are  numb. 


IV. 

A  breathing  sigh,  a  sigh  for  answer, 
A  little  talking  of  outward  things: 

The  careless  beck  is  a  merry  dancer, 
Keei^ing  sweet  time  to  the  air  she 
sings. 

A   little    pain  when   the    beck   grows 
wider ; 
"  Cross  to  me  now  —  for  her  wavelets 
swell : " 
"I   may  not   cross" — and   the   voice 
beside  her 
Faintly  reach eth,  though  heeded  well. 

No  backward  path  ;  ah !  no  returning  ; 

No  second  crossing  that  ripple's  flow : 

"  Come   to   me   now,   for  the   west   is 

burning ; 

Come  ere  it  darkens  ; "  —  "  Ah,  no ! 

ah,  no!  " 

Then    cries   of   pain,    and    arms    out- 
reaching — 
The  beck  grows  wider  and  swift  and 
deep : 
Passionate  words  as  of   one   beseech- 
ing — 
The   loud    beck    drowns    them ;  we 
walk,  and  weep. 


A  yellow  moon  in  splendor  drooping, 

A  tired  queen  with  her  state  oppressed, 
Low  by  rushes  and  syv-ordgrass  stoop- 

Lies  she  soft  on  the  waves  at  rest. 

The  desert  heavens  have  felt  her  sad- 
ness ; 
Her  earth  will  weep  her  some  dewy 
tears ; 
The  wild  beck  ends  her  tune  of  glad- 
ness, 
And  goeth  stilly  as  soul  that  fears. 

We  two  walk  on  in  our  grassy  places 

On  either  marge  of  the  moonlit  flood, 
With  the  moon's  own  sadness  in  our 
faces, 
Where  joy  is  withered,  blossom  and 
bud. 


A  shady  freshness,  chafers  whirring, 
A  little  piping  of  leaf-hid  birds  ; 

A  flatter  of  wings,  a  fitful  stirring, 
A  cloud   to  the  eastward  snowy  as 
curds. 

Bare    glassy    slopes,   where    kids    are 
tethered ; 
Round  valleys  like  nests  all   ferny- 
lined  ; 
Round   hills,  with  fluttering  tree-iops 
feathered, 
Swell   high   in  their  freckled  robes 
behind. 

A  rose-flush  tender,  a  thrill,  a  quiver, 
When  golden  gleams  to  the  tree-tops 
glide  ; 
A  flashing  edge  for  the  milk-white  river. 
The  beck,  a  river  —  with  still  sleek 
tide. 

Broad  and  white,  and  polished  as  silver, 
On  she  goes  under  fruit-laden  trees; 

Sunk  in  leafage  cooeth  the  culver, 
And  'plaineth  of  love's  disloyalties. 

I  Glitters  the  dew  and  shines  the  river, 
L'p  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her  bell ; 
But  two  are  walking  apart  for  ever, 
And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute 
farewell. 


HONORS. 


A  braver  swell,  a  swifter  sliding  ; 

The  river  hasteth,  her  banks  recede  ; 
Wing-like  sails  on  her  bosom  gliding 

Bear  down  the  lily  and  drown  the 
reed. 

Stately  prows  are  rising  and  bowing 
(Shouts  of  mariners  winnow  the  air), 

And  level  sands  for  banks  endowing 
The  tiny  green  ribbon  that  showed 
so  fair.      , 

While,    O  my  heart!    as   white    sails 
shiver, 
And  crowds  are  passing,  and  banks 
stretch  wide. 
How   hard   to  follow,   with    lips    that 
quiver. 
That   moving   speck   on   the  far-off 
side! 

Farther,  farther — I  see  it —  know  it — 
My  eyes  brim  over,  it  melts  away: 

Only  my  heart  to  my  heart  shall  show  it 
As  I  walk  desolate  day  by  day. 


And  yet    I   know  past    all   doubting, 
truly  — 
A  knowledge  greater  than  grief  can 
dim  — 
I  know,  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  me 
duly  — 
Yea,  better  —  e'en  better  than  .1  love 
him. 

And  as  I  walk  by  the  vast  calm  river. 

The  awful  river  so  dread  to  see, 
I  say,  "Thy  breadth  and  thy  depth  for 
ever 
Are    bridged    by   his  thoughts   that 
cross  to  me." 


HONORS.  — PART    I. 
A  Scholar  is  musing  on  his  Want  of 

Success. 
To  strive  —  and  fail.       Yes,    I  did 
striz'e  and/ail, 
I  set  mine  eyes  ii/ion  a  certain  nii^h' 

To  find  a  certain  stat and  could 

not  kail 
IFith  them  its  decp-sct  liglit. 


Fool  tliat  T  ivas  I    I  will  rehearse  my 
fault : 
I,  wingless,  thought  myself  on  high 
to  lift 
Among  the  winged — /  set  Uiese  feet 
that  Iialt 
To  run  against  tlte  swift. 

And  yet  this  maji,  that  loved  me  so, 
can  write  — 
That  loves  7ne,  I  would  say,  can  let 
me  see  ; 
Or  fain   ivould   have    tne    think    he 
counts  but  light 
TJtese  Honors  lost  to  me- 

[The  Letter  of  his  Friend  \ 

"What  are  they?   that  old  house   of 
yours  which  gave 
Such  welcomes  oft  to  me,  the  sun- 
beams fall 
Still  down   the   squares    of    blue    and 
white  which  pave 
Its  hospitable  hall. 

"  A  brave  old  house!  a  garden  full  of 
bees. 
Large  dropping  poppies,  and  queen 
hollyhocks. 
With     butterflies     for    crowns  —  tree 
peonies 
And  pinks  and  goldilocks. 

"  Go,  when  the  shadow  of  your  house 
is  long 
Upon  the  garden  —  when  some  new- 
waked  bird. 
Pecking  and  fluttering,  chirps  a  sud- 
den song, 
And  not  a  leaf  is  stirred ; 

"  But  every  one  drops  dew  from  either 
edge 
Upon  its  fellow,  while  an  amber  ray 
Slants  up  among  the  tree-tops  like  a 
wedge 
Of  liquid  gold  — to  play 

"  Over  and  under  them,  and  so  to  fall 
Upon  that  lane  of  water  lying  be- 
low— 
That  piece  of  sky  let  in,  that  you  do 
call 
A  pond,  but  which  I  know 


HONORS. 


"  To  be  a  deep  and  wondrous  world ; 
for  I 
Have  seen  the  trees  within  it  —  mar- 
vellous things : 
So  thick  no  bird  betwixt  their  leaves 
could  fly 
But  she  would  smite  her  wings  ;  — 

"Go  there,  I  say  ;  stand  at  the  water's 
brink, 
And  shoals  of  spotted  grayling  you 
shall  see 
Basking  between  the  shadows  —  look, 
and  think 
'  This  beauty  is  for  me ; 

"  '  For  me  this  freshness  in  the  morn- 
ing hours ; 
For  me  the  water's  clear  tranquil- 
lity; 
For  me  that  soft  descent  of  chestnut 
flowers ; 
The  cushat's  cry  for  me. 

*' '  The    lovely  laughter  of   the  wind- 
swayed  wheat ; 
The  easy  slope  of   yonder  pastoral 
hill ; 
The  sedgy  brook  whereby  the  red  kine 
meet 
And  wade  and  drink  their  fill.' 

"Then    saunter    down     that     terrace 
whence  the  sea 
All  fair  with  w-ing-like  sails  you  may 
discern ; 
Be  glad,  and  say  'This  beauty  is  for 
me  — 
A  thing  to  love  and  learn. 

"  '  For  me  the  bounding  in  of  tides  ; 
for  me 
The  laying  bare  of  sands  when  they 
retreat ; 
The  purple  flush  of  calms,  the  spark- 
ling glee 
When  waves  and  sunshine  meet.' 

••  So,  after  gazing,  homeward  turn,  and 
mount 
To  that  long  chamber  in  the  roof ; 
there  tell 


Your  heart  the  laid-up  lore  it  holds  to 
count 
And  prize  and  ponder  well. 

"The   lookings   onward    of    the  race 
before 
It  had  a  past  to  make  it  look  behind  ; 
Its  reverent  wonders,  and  its  doublings 
sore, 
Its  adorations  blind. 

"The  thunder  of   its  war-songs,  and 
the  glow 
Of    chants   to    freedom  by  the   old 
world  sung ; 
The  sweet  love  cadences  that  long  ago 
Dropped     from     the     old     world 
tongue. 

"And  then  this  new-world  lore  that 
takes  account 
Of  tangled  star-dust ;  maps  the  triple 
whirl 
Of  blue  and  red  and  argent  worlds  that 
mount 
And  greet  the  Irish  Earl  ; 

"  Or  float  across  the  tube  that  Her- 

SCHEL  sways, 
Like  pale-rose  chaplets,  or  like  sap- 
phire mist ; 
Or  hang  or  droop  along  the  heavenly 
ways, 
Like  scarfs  of  amethyst. 

"O  strange  it  is  and  wide  the   new- 
world  lore, 
For  next  it  treateth    of   our  native 
dust ! 
Must   dig   out    buried    monsters,    and 
explore 
The  green  earth's  fruitful  crust ; 

"  Must  write  the  story  of  her  seething 
youth  — 
How  lizards   paddled   in   her  luke- 
warm seas ; 
Must  show  the  cones  she  ripened,  and 
forsooth 
Count  seasons  on  her  trees ; 

"  Must  know  her  weight,  and  pry  into 
her  age, 
Count  her  old  beach  lines  by  their 
tidal  swell ; 


Hoyo,\s. 


Her  sunken  mountains  name,  her  crat- 
ers gauge, 
Her  cold  volcanoes  tell ; 

"And  treat   her  as  a  ball,  that  one 
might  pass 
From  this  hand  to  the  other — such 
a  ball 
As  he  could  measure  with  a  blade  of 
grass, 
And  say  it  was  but  small ! 

"  Honors !     O  friend,  I  pray  you  bear 
with  me : 
The  grass    hath    time    to    grow   in 
meadow  lands. 
And  leisurely  the  opal  murmuring  sea 
Breaks  on  her  yellow  sands ; 

"And  leisurely  the  ring-dove  on  her 
nest 
Broods  till  her  tender  chick  will  peck 
the  shell  ; 
And  leisurely  down  fall  from  ferny  crest 
The  dew-drops  on  the  well ; 

"And   leisurely  your  life    and    spirit 
grew. 
With  yet  the  time  to  grow  and  ripen 
free : 
No  judgment  past  withdraws  that  boon 
from  you, 
Nor  granteth  it  to  me. 

"Still  must  I  plod,  and  still  in  cities 
moil ; 
From  precious  leisure,  learned  leisure 
far. 
Dull  my  best  self  with  handling  com- 
mon soil ; 
Yet  mine  those  honors  are. 

"Mine  they  are  called;    they  are  a 
name  which  means, 
'  This  man  had  steady  pulses,  tran- 
quil nerves ; 
Here,  as  in  other  fields,  the  most  he 
gleans 
Who  works  and  never  swerves. 

"  '  We  measure  not  his  mind  ;  we  can- 
not tell 


What  lieth  under,  over,  or  beside 
The  test  we  put  him  to  ;  he  doth  excel. 
We  know,  where  he  is  tried ; 

"  '  But,  if  he  boast  some  further  excel- 
lence— 
Mind  to  create  as  well  as  to  attain  ; 
To  sway  his  peers  by  golden  eloquence, 
As  wind  doth  shift  a  fane  ; 

" 'To  sing  among  the  poets  —  we  are 
nought : 
We  cannot  drop  a  hne  into  that  sea 
And  read  its  fathoms  off,  nor  gauge  a 
thought. 
Nor  map  a  simile. 

"  '  It  may  be  of  all  voices  sublunar 

The  only  one  he  echoes  we  did  try ; 
We  may  have  come  upon  the  only  star 
That  twinkles  in  his  sky.' 

"And  so  it  was  with  me." 

O/^rlse  wy  friend .' 
False,  false,  a    random    charge,  a 
bhime  undue  ; 
IVrest  not  fair  reasoning  to  a  crooked 
ejid : 
False,  false,  as  you  are  true  ! 

But  I  read  on  :  "  And  so  it  was  with 
me ; 
Your     golden     constellations     lying 
apart 
They     neither    hailed     nor    greeted 
heartily. 
Nor  noted  on  their  chart. 

"And  yet  to  you  and  not  to  me  belong 
Those  finer  instincts  that,  like  second 
sight 
And  hearing,   catch   creation's  imder- 
song, 
And  see  by  inner  light. 

"You  are  a  well,  whereon   I,  gazing, 
see 
Reflections  of  the  upper  heavens  — 
a  well 
From  whence  coine  deep,  deep  echoes 
up  to  me  — 
Some  underwave's  low  swell. 


Hoyor.s. 


"  I  cannot   soar  into  the  heights   you 
show, 
Nor  dive  among  the  deeps  that  you 
reveal ; 
But  it  is  much  that  high  things  are  to 
know, 
That  deep  things  are  to  feel. 

"'Tis  yours,  not  mine,  to  pluck  out  of 
your  breast 
Some  human  truth,  whose  workings 
recondite 
Were  unattired    in  words,   and  mani- 
fest 
And  hold  it  forth  to  light, 

"And  cry,  'Behold  this  thing  that   I 
have  found.' 
And  though  they  knew  not  of  it  till 
that  day. 
Nor  should  have  done  with  no  man  to 
expound 
Its  meaning,  yet  they  say, 

"'We  do  accept  it:    lower  than   the 
shoals 
We  skim,  this  diver  went,  nor  did 
create. 
But  find  it  for  us  deeper  in  our  soids 
Than  we  can  penetrate.' 

"You  were   to  me  the  world's   inter- 
preter. 
The  man  that  taught  me    Nature's 
unknown  tonsiue, 
And  to  the  notes  of  her  wild  dulcimer 
First  set  sweet  words  and  sung. 

"And  what  am  I  to  you?    A  steady 
hand 
To  hold,  a  steadfast  heart  to  trust 
withal ; 
Merely  a  man  that  loves  you,  and  will 
stand 
By  you,  whate'er  befall. 

"  But   need  we    praise    his    tendance 
tutelar 
Who  feeds  a  flame  that  warms  him? 
Yet  'tis  true 
I  love  you  for  the  sake  of  what  you  are, 
And  not  of  what  you  do :  — 


"As  heaven's  high  twins,  whereof  in 
Tyrian  blue 
The    one     revolvcth ;     through    his 
course  immense 
Might  love  his  fellow  of  the  damask 
hue. 
For  like,  and  difference. 

"  For  different    pathways    ever  more 
decreed 
To  intersect,  but  not  to  interfere ; 
For    common   goal,   two  aspects,   and 
one  speed. 
One  centre  and  one  year ; 

"  For    deep    affinities,    for    drawings 
strong. 
That  by  their  nature  each  must  needs 

exert ; 
For  loved  alliance,  and  for  union  long, 
That  stands  before  desert. 

"  And  yet  desert  makes  brighter  not 
the  less, 
For  nearest  his  own  star  he  shall  not 
fail 
To  think  those    rays  unmatched  for 
nobleness. 
That  distance  counts  but  pale. 

"  Be  pale  afar,  since  still  to  me  you 
shine. 
And  must  while  Nature's  eldest  law 
shall  hold ;"  — 
A/i,  there's  the  thought  which  makes 
his  random  line 
Dear  as  rejinid  gold  t 

Then  shall  I  drink  this  draught  of 
oxymel, 
Part  sweet,  ^'art    sharp  ?      Myself 
d'  erfirized  to  know 
Is   sharp ;    the   cmese   is    sweet,   and 
trtith  to  tell 
Few  would  that  cause  forego. 

Which  is,  that  this  of  aU  tlte  men  on 
earth 
Doth  love  tnc  well  enough  to  count 
tnj  great  — 
To  think  niv  soid  and  his  of  equal 
girth  — 
O  liberal  estitnate  1 


HONORS. 


And  yet  it  is  so  ;  he  is  bound  to  me., 
For  human  love  vidkes  aliens  ]iear 
of  km  ; 
By  it  I  rise,  there  js  equality  : 
I  rise  to  t/iee,  my  twin. 

"  Take  courage  "  —  courage  I  ay,  my 
purple  peer, 
I  -will  take  coutage  ;/or  thy  Tyrian 
rays 
Refresh  me  to  the  heart,  and  strangely 
dear 
A  nd  /tealing  is  thy  praise. 

"  Take  courage,"  ^jwth  Jie,   "  and  re- 
spect the  mind 
Your  Maker  gave,  for  good  your  fate 
fulfil; 
The  fate  round  many  hearts  your  own 
to  wind." 
Twin  soul,  I  will !  I  will ! 


HONORS.  — PART  II. 

The  A  nswer. 

As    one  wlio,   journeying,   checks  the 
rein  in  haste 
Because  a  chasm  doth  yawn  across 
his  way 
Too  wide  for  leaping,  and  too  steeply 
faced 
For  climber  to  essay  — 

As  such  an  one,  being  brought  to  sud- 
den stand, 
Doubts  all  his  foregone  path  if 'twere 
the  true, 
And  turns  to  this  and  then  to  the  other 
liand 
As  knowing  not  what  to  do,  — 

So  I,  being  checked,  am  with  my  path 
at  strife 
Which  led  tn  such  a  chasm,  and  there 
doth  end. 
False  jiath !   it  cost  me  priceless  years 
of  life, 
My  well-beloved  friend. 


There  fell  a  flute  when  Ganymede  went 
up  — 
The  flute  that  he  was  wont  to  play 
upon  : 
It   dropped  beside  the  jonquil's  milk- 
white  cup. 
And  freckled  cowslips  wan  — 

Dropped  from  his  lieedless  hand  when, 
dazed  and  mute. 
He  sailed  upon  the  eagle's  quivering 
wing. 
Aspiring,  panting  —  ay,   it  dropped  — 
the  flute 
Erewhile  a  cherished  thing. 

Among  the  delicate  grasses  and  the 
bells 
Of  crocuses  that  spotted  a  rill  side, 
I  picked  up  such  a  flute,  and  its  clear 
swells 
To  my  young  lips  replied. 

I  played  thereon,  and  its  response  was 
sweet ; 
But,  lo,  they  took  from  me  that  sol- 
acing reed. 
"O  shame!"  they  said  ;  "such  music 
is  not  meet ; 
Go  up  like  Ganymede. 

"  Go  up,  despise  these  humble  grassy 
things. 
Sit  on    the   golden   edge   of  yonder 
cloud." 
Alas  !  though  ne'er  for  me  those  eagle 
wings 
Stooped  from  their  eyrie  proud. 

My  flute !  and  flung  away  its  echoes 
sleep ; 
But  as  for  me,  my  life-pulse  beateth 
low ; 
And  like  a  last-year's  leaf  enshrouded 
deep 
Under  the  drifting  snow, 

Or  like  some  vessel  wrecked  upon  the 
sand 
Of  torrid  swamps,  with  all  her  mer- 
chandise, 
And  left  to  rot  betwixt  the  .sea  and  land, 
My  helpless  spirit  lies. 


8 


HONORS. 


Ruing,  I  think  for  what  then  was  I 
made ; 
What  end  appointed  fur  —  what  use 
designed  ? 
Now  let  nie  right  this  heart  that  was 
bewrayed  — 
Unveil  these  eyes  gone  blind. 

My  well-beloved  friend,  at  noon  to-day 
Over  our  cliffs  a  wlute  mist  lay  un- 
furled. 
So  thick,  one  standing  on  their  brink 
might  say, 
Lo,  here  doth  end  the  world. 

A  white  abyss  beneath,  and  nought  be- 
side ; 
Yet,  hark !   a  cropping  sound  not  ten 
feet  dowTi  : 
Soon  I  could  trace  some  browsing  lambs 
that  hied 
Through     rock -paths     cleft    and 
brown. 

And  here  and  there  green  tufts  of  grass 
peered  through. 
Salt  lavender,  and  sea  thrift;   then 
behold. 
The  mist,  subsiding  ever,  bared  to  view 
A  beast  of  giant  mould. 

She  seemed  a  great  sea  monster  lying 
content 
With  all  her  cubs  about  her  :    but 
deep  —  deep — ■ 
The  subtUe  mist  went  floating  ;  its  de- 
scent 
Showed  the  world's  end  was  steep. 

It  shook,  it  melted,  shaking  more,  till, 
lo,  _ 

The  sprawling  monster  was  a  rock  ; 
lier  brood 
Were  boulders,  whereon  seamews white 
as  snow 
Sat  watching  for  their  food. 

Then  once  again  it  sank,  its  day  was 
done : 
Part  rolled  away,  part  vanished  ut- 
terly, 
And  glimmering  softly  under  tlie  white 
sun. 
Behold!  a  great  white  sea. 


O  that  the  mist  which  veileth  my  To- 
come 
Would  so   dissolve    and  yield  unto 
mine  eyes 
A  worthy  path  !     I'd  count  not  weari- 
some 
Long  toil,  nor  enterprise, 

But  strain  to  reach  it ;  ay,  with  wrest- 
lings stout 
And  liiipes  that  even  in  the  dark  will 
grow 
(Like    plants    in    dungeons,    reaching 
feelers  out). 
And  ploddings  wary  and  slow. 

Is  there  such  path  already  made  to  fit 
The  measure  of  my  foot?     It  shall 
atone 
For  much,  if  I  at  length  may  light  on  it 
And  know  it  for  mine  own. 

But  is  there  none?  why,  then  'tis  more 
than  well : 
And  glad  at  heart  myself  will  hew 
one  out. 
Let  me  be  only  sure ;  for,  sooth  to  tell, 
The  sorest  dole  is  doubt  — 

Doubt,  a  blank  twilight  of  the  heart, 
which  mars 
All   sweetest   colors   in   its    dimness 
same ; 
A  soul-mist,  through  whose  rifts  famil- 
iar stars 
Beholding,  we  misname. 

A  ripple  on  the  inner  sea,  which  shakes 
I'hose  images  that  on  its  breast  re- 
posed : 
A  fold  upon  the  wind-swayed  flag,  that 
breaks 
The  motto  it  disclosed. 

0  doubt !  O  doubt !  T  know  my  destiny  ; 
I  feel  thee  fluttering  bird-like  in  my 

breast ; 

1  cannot  loose,  but  I  will  sing  to  thee, 

And  flatter  thee  to  rest. 

There  is  no  certainty,  "  my  bosom's 
guest,  " 
No  proving  for  the  things  whereof 
yc  wot ; 


HOyORS. 


For,  like  the  dead  to  sight  unmanifest, 
They  are,  and  they  are  not. 

But  surely  as  they  are,  for  God  is  truth. 
And  as  they  are  not,  for  we  saw  them 
die, 
So  surely  from  the  heaven  drops  light 
for  youth. 
If  youth  will  walk  thereby. 

And  can  I  see  this  light?    It  may  be 
so; 
"  But   see   it   thus    and   thus, "    my 
fathers  said. 
The  living  do  not  rule  this  world  ;  ah, 
no! 
It  is  the  dead,  the  dead. 

Shall  I  be  slave  to  every  noble  soul. 
Study  the  dead,  and  to  their  spirits 
bend ; 
Or  learn  to  read  my  own  heart's  folded 
scroll, 
And  make  self-rule  my  end  ? 

Thought  from  -without  —  O  shall  I  take 
on  trust, 
And  life  from  others  modelled  steal 
or  win ; 
Or  shall  I  heave  to  light,  and  clear  of 
rust 
My  true  life  from  ■wiikin, 

O,  let  me  be  myself!     But  where.  O 
where, 
Under  this  heap  of   precedent,  this 
mound     . 
Of  customs,  modes,  and  maxims,  cum- 
brance  rare. 
Shall  the  Myself  be  found? 

O  thou    nTyielf^   thy  fathers  thee   de- 
barred 
None  of  their  wisdom,  but  their  folly 
came 
Therewith  ;  they  smoothed  thy  path,  but 
made  it  hard 
For  thee  to  quit  the  same. 

With  glosses  they  obscured  God's  nat- 
ural truth. 
And  with  tradition  taniished  His  re- 
vealed ; 


With  vain  protections  they  endangered 
youth. 
With  layings  bare  they  sealed. 

What  aileth  thee,  myself?    Alas!  thy 
hands 
Are   tired   with   old    opinions  — heir 
and  son. 
Thou  hast  ii  herited  thy  father's  lands 
And  all  his  debts  thereon. 

O   that   some   power  would    give    me 
Adam's  eyes! 
O  for  the  straight  simplicity  of  Eve! 
For  I  see  nought,  or  grow,  poor  fool, 
too  wise 
With  seeing  to  believe. 

Exemplars  may  be  heaped  until  ihey 
h'.de 
Thi  rules  that  they  were  made   to 
render  i  lain  ; 
Love  may  be  watched,  her  nature   to 
decide. 
Until  love's  self  doth  wane. 

Ah  me !  and  when  forgotten  and  fore- 
gone 
We  leave  the  learning  of  departed 
days. 
And  cease  the  generations  past  to  con, 
Their  wisdom  and  their  ways  — 

When  fain  to  learn  we  lean  into  the 
dark, 
And  grope  to  feel  the  floor  of  the 
abyss. 
Or  find  the  secret  boundarj'  lines  which 
mark 
Where  soul  and  matter  kiss  — 

Fair  world  !  these  puzzled  souls  of  ours 
crow  weak 
.      With    beating    their    bruised  wings 

against  the  rim 
That  hounds  their  utmost  flying,  when 
thev  seek 
The  distant  and  the  dim. 

We  pant,  we  strain  like  birds  against 
their  wires : 
Are  sick  to  reach  the  vast  and  the 
bcyo:  d ;  — 


HOiVORS. 


And  what  avails,  if  still  to  our  desires 
Those  far-off  gulfs  respond  ? 

Contentment  comes  not  therefore  ;  still 
there  lies 
An  outer  distance  when  the  first  is 
hailed, 
And  still  for  ever  yawns  before  our  eyes 
An  UTMOST  —  that  is  veiled. 

Searching  those  edges  of  the  universe. 
We  leave  the  central  fields  a  fallow 
part; 
To  feed  the  eye  more  precious  things 
amerce, 
And  starve  the  darkened  heart. 

Then  all  goes  wrong :  the  old  founda- 
tions rock, 
One  scorns  at  him  of  old  who  gazed 
unshod ; 
One  striking  with  a  pickaxe  thinks  the 
shock 
Shall  move  the  seat  of  God. 

A  little  way,  a  very  little  way 

(Life  is  so  short),  they  dig  into  the 
rind, 
And  they  are  very  sorry,  so  they  say , — 
Sorry  for  what  they  find. 

But  truth  is  sacred  —  ay,  and  must  be 
told: 
There   is   a    story  long   beloved   of 
man ; 
We  must  forego  it,  for  it  will  not  hold  — 
Nature  had  no  such  plan. 

And  then,  "if  God  hath  said  it,"  some 
should  cry, 
"  We  have  the  story  from  the  foun- 
tain head: " 
Why,  then,  what  better  than  the  old 
reply, 
The  first  "Yea,  hath  God  said?" 

The  garden,  O  the  carden,  must  it  go. 
Source   of  our   hope  and  our  most 
dear  regret  ? 
The  ancient  story,  must  it  no  more  show 
How  men  may  win  it  yet? 

And  all  upon  the  Titan  child's  decree. 
The  baby  science,  born  but  yesterday, 


That  in  its  rash  unlearned  infancy^ 
With  shells  and  stones  at  play. 

And  delving   in   the  outworks  of  this 
world, 
And  little  crevices  that  it  could  reach. 
Discovered  certain  bones  laid  up,  and 
furled 
Under  an  ancient  beach. 

And  other  waifs  that  lay  to  its  young 
mind 
Some  fathoms  lower  than  they  ought 
to  lie, 
By  gain  whereof  it  could  not  fail  to  find 
Much  proof  of  ancientry. 

Hints  at  a  pedigree  withdrawal  and  vast. 

Terrible  deeps,  and  o-d  obscurities. 
Or  soulless  origin,  and  twilight  passed 
In  the  primeval  seas. 

Whereof  it  tells,  as  thinking   it   hath 
been 
Of  truth  not  meant  for  man  inheri- 
tor; 
As  if  this  knowledge  Heaven  had  ne'er 
foreseen 
And  not  provided  for ! 

Knowledge  ordained  to  live!  although 
the  fate 
Of  much  that  went  before  it  was  —  to 
die. 
And  be   called   ignorance   by  such  as 
wait 
Till  the  next  drift  comes  by. 

O  mai-vellous  credulity  of  man  ! 

If  God  indeed  kept  secret,  couldst 
thou  know 
Or  follow  up  the  mighty  Artisan 
Unless  He  willed  it  so? 

And  canst  thou  of  the  Maker  think  in 
sooth 
That  of  the  Made  He  shall  be  found 
at  fault, 
And  dream lof  wresting  from  Him  hid- 
den truth 
By  force  or  by  assaidt  ? 


HONORS. 


But^  he  keeps  not  secret  — if  thins 
eyds 
He  openeth  to   His  wondrous  work 
of  late  — 
Think  how  in  soberness  thy  wisdom  hes, 
And  have  the  grace  to  wait. 

Wait,  nor  against  the  half-learned  les- 
son fret, 
Nor  chide  at  old  belief  as  if  it  erred, 
Because  thou  canst  not  reconcile  as  yet 
The  Worker  and  the  word. 

Either  the  Worker  did  in  ancient  days 
Give  us  the  word.  His  tale  of  love 
and  might ; 
(And  if  in  truth  He  gave  it  us,  who  says 
He  did  not  give  it  right  ?) 

Or  else  He  gave  it  not,  and  then  indeed 
We  know  not  if  He  is  —  by  whom 
our  years 
Are  portioned,  who  the  orphan  moons 
doth  lead, 
And  the  unfathered  spheres. 

We  sit  unowned  upon  our  burial  sod. 
And  know  not  whence  we  come  or 
whose  we  be. 
Comfortless  mourners  for  the  mount  of 
God, 
The  rocks  of  Calvary : 

Bereft  of  heaven,  and  of  the  long-loved 
page 
Wroueht  us  by  some  who  thought 
with  death  to  cope  ; 
Despairing  comforters,  from  age  to  age 
Sowing  tlie  seeds  of  hope : 

Gracious  deceivers,  who  have  lifted  us 
Out  of  the  slough  where  passed  our 
unknown  yo'ith  ; 
Beneficent  liars,  who  have  gifted  us 
With  sacred  love  of  truth  ! 

Farewell  to  them :  yet  pause  ere  thou 
unmoor 
And  set  thine  ark  adrift  on  unknown 
seas ; 
How  wert   thou  bettered  so,  or  more 
secure 
Thou,  and  thy  destinies ! 


And  if  thou  searchest,  and  art  made  to 

fear 

Facing  of  unread  riddles  dark   and 

hard, 

And  mastering  not  their  majesty  austere, 

Their  meaning  locked  and  barred  : 

How  would  it  make  the  weight  and 
wonder  less. 
If,   lifted   from    immortal    shoulders 
down. 
The  worlds  were  cast  on  seas  of  empti- 
ness 
In  realms  without  a  crown, 

And  (if  there  were  no  God)  were  left 
to  rue 
Dominion  of  the  air  and  of  the  fire  ? 
Then  if  there  be  a  God,  "  Let  God  be 
true, 
And  every  man  a  liar." 

But  as  for  me,  I  do  not  speak  as  oiie 
That  is  exempt:   I  am  with  life  at 
feud : 
My  heart  reproacheth  me,  as  there  were 
none 
Of  so  small  gratitude ; 

Wherewith  shall  I  console  thee,  heart 
o'  mine. 
And  still  thy  yearning  and  resolve 
thy  doubt? 
That  which  I  know,  and  that  which  I 
divine, 
Alas !  have  left  thee  out. 

I  have  aspired  to  know  the  might  of 
God, 
As    if   the   story   of    His    love   was 
furled, 
Nor  sacred  foot  the  grasses  e'er  had 
trod 
Of  this  redeemed  world :  — 

Have  sunk  my  thoughts  as  lead  into 
the  deep. 
To  grope  for  that  abyss  whence  evil 
grew. 
And  spirits  of  ill,  with  eyes  that  cannot 
weep. 
Hungry  and  desol.ite  flew ; 


HONORS. 


As   if   their  legions   did   not   one   day 
crowd 
The  death-pangs  of  the  Conquering 
Good  to  seel 
As  if  a  sacred  head  had  never  bowed 
In  death  for  man  —  for  me  ; 

Nor  ransomed  back  the  souls  beloved, 
the  sons 
Of    men,    from    thraldom   with    the 
nether  kings 
In  that  dark  country  where  those  evil 
ones 
Trail  their  unhallowed  wings. 

And  didst  Thou   love   the   race    thst 
loved  not  Thee, 
And  d^dst  Thou  take  to   heaven   a 
human  brow? 
Dost   plead  with   man's  voice  by   the 
marvellous  sea  ? 
Art  Thou  his  kinsman  now? 

O    God,    O    kinsman    loved,   but   not 
enough ! 
O    man,   with    eyes    majestic    after 
death. 
Whose  feet  have  toiled  along  our  path- 
ways rough, 
Whose  lips  drawn  human  breath ! 

By  that  one  likeness  which  is  ours  and 
Thine, 
By  that  one  nature  which  doth  hold 
us  kin, 
By   that   high   heaven  where,  sinless, 
Thou  dost  shine 
To  draw  us  sinners  in, 

By  Thy  last  silence  in  the  judgment- 
hall. 
By  long  foreknowledge  of  the  deadly 
tree. 
By  darkness,  by  the  wormwood  and  the 
gall, 
I  pray  Thee  visit  me. 

Come,  lest  this  heart  should,  cold  and 
cast  away, 
Die  ere  the  guest  adored  she  enter- 
tain— 
Lest    eyes    which    never    saw    Thine* 
earthly  day 
Should  miss  Thy  heavenly  reijn. 


Come  weary-eyed  from  seeking  in  tha 
night 
Thy    wanderers    strayed    upon    the 
pathless  wold, 
Who  woLuided,  dying,  cry  to  Thee  for 
light, 
And  cannot  find  their  fold. 

And  deign,  O  Watcher,  with  the  sleep- 
less brow. 
Pathetic  in  its  yearning  —  deign  re- 
ply: 
Is  there,  O  is  there  aught  that  such  as 
Thou 
Wouldst  take  from  such  as  I  ? 

Are  there  no  briars  across  Thy  pathway 
thrust  ? 
Are  there  no  thorns  that  compass  it 
about  ? 
Nor  any  stones  that  Thou  wilt  deign 
to  trust 
INIy  hands  to  gather  out? 

O,  if  thou  wilt,  and  if  such  bliss  might 
be. 
It  were  a  cure  for  doubt,  regret,  de- 
lay— 
Let  my  lost  pathway  go  —  what  aileth 
me?  — 
There  is  a  better  way. 

What    though    unmarked    the    happy 
workman  toil. 
And   break   unthanked   of  man   the 
stubborn  clod  ? 
It  is  enough,  for  sacred  is  the  soil, 
Dear  are  the  hills  of  God. 

Far  better  in  its  place  the  lowliest  bird 
Should  sing  aright  to  Him  the  low- 
liest song. 
Than  that  a  seraph  strayed  should  take 
the  word 
And  sing  His  glory  wrong. 

Friend,  it  is  time  to  work.     I  say  to 
th-e. 
Thou  dost  all  eartlily  good  by  much 
excel : 
Thou  and  God's  blessing  are  enough 
for  me : 
My  work,  my  work  —  farewell ! 


REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE  I 

REQUIESCAT   IN   PACE! 

O  MY  heart,  my  heart  is  sick  awishing  and  awaiting: 
The  lad  took  up  his  knapsack,  he  went,  he  went  his  way ; 

And  I  looked  on  for  his  coming,  as  a  prisoner  through  the  grating 
Looks  and  longs  and  longs  and  wishes  for  its  opening  day. 

On  the  wild  purple  mountains,  all  alone  with  no  other, 

The  strong  terrible  mountains,  he  longed,  he  longed  to  be  ; 

And  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  father,  and  he  stooped  to  kiss  Ins  mother, 
And  till  I  said  "  Adieu,  sweet  Sir,"  he  quite  forgot  me. 

He  wrote  of  their  white  raiment,  the  ghostly  capes  that  screen  them, 
Of  the  storm  winds  that  beat  them,  their  thunder-rents  and  scars. 

And  the  paradise  of  purple,  and  the  golden  slopes  atween  them. 
And  fields,  where  grow  God's  gentian  bells,  and  His  crocus  stars. 

He  wrote  of  frail  gauz)^  clouds,  that  drop  on  them  like  fleeces. 
And  make  green  their  fir  forests,  and  feed  their  mosses  hoar; 

Or  come  sailing  up  the  valleys,  and  get  wTecked  and  go  to  pieces, 
Like  sloops  agamst  their  cruel  strength  :  then  he  wrote  no  more. 

O  the  silence  that  came  next,  the  patience  and  long  aching! 

They  never  said  so  much  as  "  He  was  a  dear  loved  son  ;" 
Not  the  father  to  the  mother  moaned,  that  dreary  stilhiess  breaking: 

"  Ah !  wherefore  did  he  leave  us  so  —  this,  our  only  one  ?  " 

They  sat  within,  as  waiting,  until  the  neighbors  prayed  them, 
At  Cromer,  by  the  sea-coast,  'twere  peace  and  change  to  be ; 

And  to  Cromer,  in  their  patience,  or  that  urgency  affrayed  them, 
Of  because  the  tidings  tarried,  they  came,  and  took  me. 

It  was  three  months  and  over  since  the  dear  lad  had  started: 

On  the  green  downs  at  Cromer  I  sat  to  see  the  view ; 
On  an  open  space  of  herbage,  where  the  ling  and  fern  had  parted, 

Betwixt  the  tall  white  lighthouse  towers,  the  old  and  the  new. 

Below  me  lay  the  wide  sea,  the  scarlet  sun  was  stooping, 

And  he  dyed  the  waste  water,  as  with  a  scarlet  dye  ; 
And  lie  dyed  the  lighthouse  towers  ;  evers'  bird  with  white  wing  swooping 

Took  his  colors,  and  the  cliffs  did,  and  the  yawning  sky. 

Over  grass  came  that  strange  flush,  and  over  ling  and  heather, 
Over  flocks  of  sheep  and  lambs,  and  over  Cromer  town  ; 

And  each  filmy  cloudlet  crossing  drifted  like  a  scarlet  feather 
Torn  from  the  folded  wings  of  clouds,  while  he  settled  down. 

When  I  looked,  I  dared  not  sich  :  —  Tn  the  light  of  God's  splendor, 
With  His  daily  blue  and  gold,  who  am  I  ?  what  nm  I  ? 

But  that  passion  and  outpouring  seemed  an  awful  sign  and  tender, 
Like  the  blood  of  tlie  Redeemer,  shown  on  earth  and  sky. 

0  for  comfort,  O  the  waste  of  a  long  doubt  and  trouble ! 
On  that  sultry  August  eve  trouble  had  made  me  meek : 

1  was  tired  of  my  sorrow  —  O  so  faint,  for  it  was  double 
In  the  weight  of  its  oppression,  that  I  could  not  speak! 


REQUIESCA  T  IN  PA  CE  ! 

And  a  little  comfort  grew,  while  the  dimmed  eyes  were  feeding, 

And  the  dull  ears  with  murmur  of  waters  satisfied ; 
But  a  dream  came  slowly  nigh  me,  all  my  thoughts  and  fancy  leading 

Across  the  bounds  of  waking  life  to  the  other  side. 

And  I  dreamt  that  I  looked  out,  to  the  waste  waters  turning, 
And  saw  the  flakes  of  scarlet  from  wave  to  wave  tossed  on  ; 

And  the  scarlet  mix  with  azure,  where  a  heap  of  gold  lay  burning 
On  the  clear  remote  sea  reaches ;  for  the  sun  was  goue. 

Then  I  thought  a  far-off  shout  dropped  across  the  still  water  — 

A  question  as  I  took  it,  for  soon  an  answer  came 
From  the  tall  white  ruined  lighthouse  :   "  If  it  be  the  old  man's  daughter 

That  we  wot  of,"  ran  the  answer,  "what  then  —  who's  to  blame?" 

I  looked  up  at  the  lighthouse-all  roofless  and  storm-broken: 
A  great  white  bird  sat  on  it,  with  neck  stretched  to  sea ; 

Unto  somewhat  which  was  sailing  in  a  skiff  the  bird  had  spoken, 
And  a  trembling  seized  my  spirit,  for  they  talked  of  me. 

I  was  the  old  man's  daughter,  the  bird  went  on  to  name  him ; 

"  He  loved  to  count  the  stariings  as  he  sat  in  the  sun ; 
Long  ago  he  served  with  Nelson,  and  his  story  did  not  shame  him: 

Ay,  the  old  man  was  a  good  man  —  and  liis  work  was  done." 

The  skiff  was  like  a  crescent,  ghost  of  some  moon  departed, 

Frail,  white,  she  rocked  and  curtseyed  as  the  red  wave  she  crossed. 

And  the  thing  within  sat  paddling,  and  the  crescent  dipped  and  darted, 
Flying  on,  again  was  shouting,  but  the  words  w-ere  lost. 

I  said,  "  That  thing  is  hooded  :  I  could  hear  but  that  fioweth 
The  great  hood  below  its  mouth  :  "  then  the  bird  made  reply, 

"  If  they  know  not,  more's  the  pity,  for  the  little  shrewmouse  knoweth, 
And  the  kite  knows,  and  the  eagle,  and  the  glead  and  pye." 

And  he  stooped  to  whet  his  beak  on  the  stones  of  the  coping ; 

And  when  once  more  the  shout  came^  in  querulous  tones  he  spake, 
"  What  I  said  was  '  more 's  the  pity  ; '  if  the  heart  be  long  past  hoping. 

Let  it  say  of  death,  '  I  know  it,'  or  doubt  on  and  break. 

"  Men  must  die  —  one  dies  by  day,  and  near  him  moans  his  mother, 
They  dig  his  grave,  tread  it  down,  and  go  from  it  full  loth : 

And  one  dies  about  the  midnight,  and  the  wind  moans,  and  no  other. 
And  the  snows  give  him  a  burial  —  and  God  loves  them  both. 

"The  first  hath  no  advantage  —  it  shall  not  soothe  his  slumber 
That  a  lock  of  his  brow'n  hair  his  father  aye  shall  keep ; 

For  the  last,  he  nothing  grudgeth,  it  shall  nought  his  quiet  cumber, 
That  in  a  golden  mesh  of  his  callow  eaglets  sleep. 

"  Men  must  die  when  all  is  said,  e'en  the  kite  and  glead  know  it, 
And  the  lad's  father  knew  it,  and  the  lad,  the  lad  too  ; 

It  was  never  kept  a  secret,  waters  bring  it  and  winds  blow  it, 
And  he  met  it  on  the  mountain  —  why  then  make  ado?" 


SUPPER  AT   THE  MILL. 


IS 


With  that  he  spread  his  white  wings,  and  swept  across  the  water, 

Lit  upon  the  hooded  liead,  and  it  and  all  went  down ; 
And  they  laughed  as  they  went  under,  and  I  woke,  "the  old  man's  daughter," 

And  looked  across  the  slope  of  grass,  and  at  Cromer  town. 

And  I  said,  "  Is  that  the  sky,  all  gray  and  silver  suited?" 
And  I  thought,  "  Is  that  the  sea  that  lies  so  white  and  wan? 

I  have  dreamed  as  I  remember :  give  me  time  —  I  was  reputed 
Once  to  have  a  steady  courage  —  O,  I  fear  'tis  gone !  " 

And  I  said,   "  Is  this  my  heart  ?  if  it  be,  low  'tis  beating, 

So  he  lies  on  the  mountain,  hard  by  the  eagles'  brood  ; 
I  have  had  a  dream  this  evenhig,  while  the  white  and  gold  were  fleeting, 

But  I  need  not,  need  not  tell  it  —  where  would  be  the  good ? 

"  Where  would  be  the  good  to  them,  his  father  and  his  mother? 

For  the  ghost  of  their  dead  hope  appeareth  to  them  still. 
While  a  loaely  watch-fire  smoulders,  who  its  dying  red  would  smother, 

That  gives  what  little  light  there  is  to  a  darksome  hill? " 

I  rose  up,  I  made  no  moan,  I  did  not  cry  nor  falter. 

But  slowly  iu  the  twilight  I  came  to  Cromer  town. 
What  can  wringing  of  the  hands  do  that  which  is  ordained  to  alter? 

He  had  climbed,  had  climbed  the  mountain,  he  would  ne'er  come  down. 

But,  O  my  first,  O  my  best,  I  could  not  choose  but  love  thee ! 

O,  to  be  a  wild  white  bird,  and  seek  thy  rocky  bed  ! 
From  my  breast  I'd  give  thee  burial,  pluck  the  down  and  spread  above  thee ; 

I  would  sit  and  sing  thy  requiem  on  the  mountain  head. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  love  of  loves!  would  I  had  died  before  thee! 

O,  to  be  at  least  a  cloud,  that  near  thee  I  might  flow. 
Solemnly  approach  the  mountain,  weep  away  my  being  o'er  thee, 

And  veil  thy  breast  with  icicles,  and  thy  brow  with  snow ! 


SUPPER  AT  THE   MILL. 

Mother.  Well,  Frances. 

Frajices.  Well,   good   mother,    how 

are  you  ? 
M.  I'm  hearty,  lass,  but  warm  ;  the 
weatlier's  warm : 
I  think  'tis  mostly  warm   on   market 

days. 
I   met 'with   George  behind  the  mill: 

said  he, 
"  Mother,  go  in  and  rest  awhile." 

F.  Ay,  do. 

And  stay  to  supper ;  put  your  basket 

down. 

1\T.  Why,  now,  it  is  not  heavy? 

F.  Willie,  man, 

Get  up  and  kiss  your  Granny.    Heav^. 


Some  call  good  churning  luck  ;   but, 

luck  or  skill. 
Your  butter  mostly  comes  as  firm  and 

sweet 
As  if  'twas  Christmas.     So  you  sold  it 

all? 
M.  All  but  this  pat  that  I  put  by  for 

George  ; 
He  always  loved  my  butter. 
F.  That  he  did. 

M.  And    has    your    speckled    hen 

brought  off  her  brood? 
F.   Not  yet ;  but  that  old  duck  I  told 
you  of. 
She  hatched  eleven  out  of  twelve  to- 
day. 
Child.  And,  Granny,  they're  so  yel' 
low. 


i6 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 


M.  Ay,  my  lad, 

Yellow  as  gold  —  yellow  as  Willie' s  hair. 

C.  They'  re  all  mine,  Granny  —  father 

says  they're  mine. 
M.  To  think  of  that ! 
F.  Yes,  Granny,  only  think! 

Why,  father  means  to  sell  them  when 

they're  fat. 
And  put  the  money  in  the  savings  bank, 
And   all    against    our    Willie    goes   to 

school  : 
But  Willie  would  not  touch  them  —  no, 

not  he  ; 
He  knows  that  father  would  be  angry 
else. 
C.  But  I  want  one  to  play  with  —  O, 
I  want 
A  little  yellow  duck  to  take  to  bed ! 
M.  What !  would  you  rob  the  poor 

old  mother,  then  ? 
F.   Now,  Granny,  if  you'll  hold  the 
babe  awhile  ; 
'Tis  time  I  took  up  Willie  to  his  crib. 
[Exit  Frances. 


[Mother  sin^s  to  tJie  infant.^ 

Playing  on  the  virginals. 

Who  but  I  ?     Sae  glad,  sae  free, 
Smelling  for  all  cordials, 

The  green  mint  and  marjorie  ; 
Set  among  the  budding  broom, 

Kingcup  and  daffodilly. 
By  my  side  I  made  him  room : 

O  love  my  Willie  ! 

"  Like  me,  love  me,  girl  o'  gowd," 

Sang  he  to  my  nimble  strain  ; 
Sweet  his  ruddy  lips  o'erfiowed 

Till  my  heartstrings  rang  again  : 
By  the  broom,  the  bonny  broom, 

Kingcup  and  daffodilly. 
In  my  heart  I  made  him  room  : 

O  love  my  Willie  ! 

"  Pipe  and  play,  dear  heart,"  sang  he, 

"  I  must  go,  yet  pipe  and  play  ; 
Soon  I'll  come  and  ask  of  thee 

For  an  answer  yea  or  nay  ;" 
And  I  waited  till  the  flocks' 

Panted  in  yon  waters  stilly. 
And  the  corn  stood  in  the  shocks : 

O  love  my  Willie ! 


I  thought  first  when  thou  didst  come 

I  would  wear  the  ring  for  thee, 
But  the  year  told  out  its  sum 

Ere  again  thou  sat'st  by  me  ; 
Thou  hadst  nought  to  ask  that  day 

By  kingcup  and  daffodilly  ; 
I  said  neither  yea  nor  nay  : 

O  love  my  Willie ! 

Enter  George. 

G.  Well,  mother,  'tis  a  fortnight  now, 

or  more. 
Since  I  set  eyes  on  you. 

M.  Ay,  George,  my  dear, 

I  reckon  you've  been  busy  :  so  have  we. 

G.  And  how  does  father  ? 

M.  He  gets  through  his  work. 

But  he  grows  sti^,  a  little  stiff,  my  dear  ; 

He's  not  so  young,  you  know,  by  twenty 

years. 
As  I  am  —  not  so  young  by  twenty  years, 
And  I'm  past  sixty. 

G.  Yet  he's  hale  and  stout. 

And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his 

pipe  ; 
And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his 

cows, 
And  a  pride,  too. 
M.  And  well  he  may,  my  dear. 

G.  Give  me  the  little  one,  he  tires 

your  arm  ; 
He's  such  a  kicking,  crowing,  wakeful 

rogue. 
He  almost  wears  our  lives  out  with  his 

noise 
Just  at  day-dawTiing,  when  we  wish  to 

sleep. 
What !  you  young  villain,  would  you 

clench  your  fist 
In  father's  curls?  a  dusty  father,  sure, 
And  you're  as  clean  as  wax. 

Ay,  you  may  laugh  ; 
But  if  vou  live  a  seven  yenrs  more  or  so. 
These  hands  of  yours  will  all  be  brown 

and  scratched 
With  climbing  after  nest-eggs.   They'll 

go  down 
As    many  rat-holes  as   are  round  the 

mere  ; 
And  you'll  love    mud,   all  manner  of 

mud  and  dirt. 
As  your  father  did  afore  you,  and  you'll 

wade 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 


»7 


After  young  water-birds ;   and    you'll 

get  bogged 
Setting  of   eel-traps,   and  you'll  spoil 

your  clothes, 
And  come  home  torn   and   dripping : 

then,  you  know, 
You'll   feel  the  stick  —  you'll  feel  the 

stick,  my  lad! 


Enter  Frances. 

E.  You   should  not  talk  so   to  the 

blessed  babe  — 
How  can  you,  George  ?  why,  he  may 

be  in  heaven 
Before  the  time  you  tell  of. 

M.  Look  at  him  : 

So  earnest,  such  an  eager  pair  of  eyes ! 
He  thrives,  my  dear. 

E.       Yes,  that  he  does,  thank  God! 
My  children  are  all  strong. 

M.  'Tis  much  to  say  ; 

Sick  children  fret  their  mothers'  hearts 

to  shreds. 
And  do  no  credit  to  their  keep  nor  care. 
Where  is  your  little  lass  ? 

E.  Your  daughter  came 

And  begged  her  of  us  for  a  week  or  so. 

M.  Well,  well,  she  might  be  wiser, 

that  she  might. 
For  she  can  sit  at  ease  and  pay  her 

way ; 
A    sober    husband,   too  —  a    cheerful 

man  — 
Honest  as  ever  stepped,  and  fond  of 

her; 
Yet  she  is  never  easy,  never  glad. 
Because  she  has  not  children.    Well-a- 

day ! 
If  she  could  know  how  hard  her  mother 

worked. 
And  what  ado  I  had,  and  what  a  moil 
With    my   half-dozen  !     Children,    ay, 

forsooth, 
They  bring  their  own  love  with  them 

when  they  come, 
But  if  they  come  not  there  is  peace  and 

rest ; 
Tlie  pretty  lambs  I  and  yet  she  cries 

for  more  : 
Why,  the  world's  full  of  them,  and  so 

is  heaven  — 
They  are  not  rare. 


all; 


No,  mother,  not  at 


But  Hannah  must  not  keep  our  Fanny 

long  — 
She  spoils  her. 
M.  Ah!   folks  spoil  their 

children  now ; 
When  I  was  a  young  woman  'twas  not 

so; 
We  made  our  children  fear  us,  made 

them  work, 
Kept  them  in  order. 
G.  Were  not  proud 

of  them  — 
Eh,  mother? 
M.  I  set  store  by  mine,  'tis 

true. 
But  then  I  had  good  cause. 
G.  My  lad, 

d'ye  hear? 
Your   Granny  was  not   proud,    by   no 

means  proud! 
She  never  spoilt  your  fatlier  —  no,  not 

she. 
Nor  ever  made  him  sing  at  harvest- 
home. 
Nor  at  the  forge,   nor  at  the  baker's 

shop, 
Nor  to  the  doctor  while  she  lay  abed 
Sick,  and  lie  crejjt  up  stairs  to  share 

her  broth. 
M.     Well,  well,  you  were  my  young- 
est, and,  what's  more. 
Your  father  loved  to  hear  you  sing  —  he 

did. 
Although,  good  man,  he  could  not  tell 

one  tune 
From  the  other. 
E.  No,  he  got  his  voice 

from  you : 
Do  use  it,  George,  and  send  the  child 

to  sleep. 
G.  What  must  I  sing  ? 

E.     The  ballad  of  the  man 
Thit  is  so  shy  he  cmnot  speak  his  mind. 
G.     Ay,   of   the   purple   grapes   and 

crimson  leaves ; 
But,  mother,  put  your  shawl  and  bon- 
net off. 
And,    Frances,    lass,    I    brought   some 

cresses  in  : 
Just  wash  them,  toast  the  bacon,  break 

some  eggs. 
And  let's  to  supper  shortly. 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 


[Sings.l 

My  neighbor  White  —  we  met  to-day  — 
He  always  had  a  cheerful  way, 

As  if  he  breathed  at  ease  ; 
My  neighbor  Wliite    Lves    down    the 

glade, 
And  I  live  higher,  in  the  shade 

Of  my  old  walnut-trees. 

So  many  lads  and  lasses  small. 

To  f^ed  them  all,  to  clothe  them  all, 

Must  surely  tax  his  wit ; 
I  see  his  thatch  when  I  look  out, 
His  branching  roses  creep  about, 

And  vines  half  smother  it. 

There  white-h^red  urchins  climb  his 

eaves. 
And  little  watch-fires  heap  with  leaves, 

And  milky  filberts  hoard  ; 
And  there  h-.s  oldest  daughter  stands 
With  downcast  eyes  and  skilful  hands 

Before  her  ironing-board. 

She  comforts  all  her  mother's  days. 
And  with  her  sweet  obedient  ways 

She  makes  her  labor  light ; 
So  sweet  to  hear,  so  fair  to  see! 
O,  she  is  much  too  good  for  me, 

That  lovely  Lettice  White!    • 

'Tis  hard  to  feel  one's  self  a  fool ! 
With  that  same  lass  I  went  to  school  — 

I  then  was  great  and  wise ; 
She  read  upon  an  easier  book, 
And  I  —  I  never  cared  to  look 

Into  her  shy  blue  eyes. 

And  now  I  know  they  mvist  be  there. 
Sweet  eyes,  behind  those  lashes  fair 

That  will  not  raise  their  rim : 
If  maids  be  shy,  he  cures  who  can  ; 
But  if  a  man  be  shy  —  a  man  — 

Why  then  the  worse  for  him ! 

My  mother  cries,  "  For  such  a  lad 
A  wife  is  easy  to  be  had 

And  a'ways  to  be  found  ; 
A  finer  scholar  scarce  can  be, 
And  for  a  foot  and  leg,"  says  she, 
"  He  beats  the  country  round! 


"  My  handsome  boy  must  stoop  his  head 
To  clear  her  door  wliom  he  would  wed." 

Weak  praise,  but  fondly  simg! 
"O  mother!  scholars  sometimes  fail  — 
And  what  can  foot  and  leg  avail 

To  him  that  wants  a  tongue  ? " 

When  by  her  ironing-board  I  sit. 
Her  little  sisters  tound  me  flit. 

And  bring  me  forth  their  store ; 
Dark  cluster  grapes  o/  dusty  blue, 
And  small  sweet  apj^les,  bright  of  hue 

And  crimson  to  the  core. 

But  she  abideth  silent,  fair; 
All  shaded  by  her  flaxen  hair 

The  blushes  come  and  go ; 
I  look,  and  I  no  more  can  speak 
Than  the  red  sim  that  on  her  cheek 

Smiles  as  he  lieth  low. 

Sometimes  the  roses  by  the  latch, 

Or  scarlet  vine-leaves  from  her  thatch, 

Come  sailing  down  like  birds  ; 
When  from  their  drifts  her  board  I  clear, 
She  thanks  me,  but  I  scarce  can  hear 

The  shyly  uttered  words. 

Oft  have  I  wooed  sweet  Lettice  White 
By  daylight  and  by  candlelight 

When  we  two  were  apart. 
Some  better  day  come  on  apace, 
And  let  me  tell  her  face  to  face, 

"Maiden,  thou  hast  my  heart." 

How  gendy  rock  yon  poplars  high 
Against  the  reach  of  primrose  sky 

Witli  heaven's  pale  candles  stored! 
She  sees  them  all,  sweet  Lettice  White  ; 
I'll  e'en  go  sit  again  to-night 

Beside  her  ironing-board  I 


Why,   you  young   rascal !   who  would 

think  it,  now? 
No  sooner  do  I  stop  than  you  look  up. 
What  would  you  have  your  poor  old 

father  do  ? 
'Twas  a  brave  song,  long-winded,  and 

not  loud. 
M.  He  heard   the  bacon 

sputter  on  the  fork, 
And  heard  his  mother's  step  across  the 

floor. 


SCHOLAR  AND   CARPENTER. 


19 


Where  did  you  get  that  song?  —  'tis  new 
to  me. 
G.     I  bought  it  of  a  pedlar. 
M.  Did  you  so  ? 

Well,    you   were   always   lor  the    love- 
song>,  George. 

F.  My  dear,  just  lay  his  head  upon 
your  arm, 

And  if  you'll  pace  and  sing  two  minutes 

more 
He  needs  must  sleep  —  his  eyes  are  full 

of  s^eep. 

G.  Do  you  sing,  mother. 

E.  Ay,  good  mother,  do  ; 

'Tis  long  since  we  have  lieard  you. 

HI.  Like  enough ; 

I'm  an   old  woman,  and  the  girls  ai.d 

lads 
I  used  to  sing  to  sleep  o'ertop  me  now. 
What  should  I  sing  for? 

G.  Why,  to  pleasure  us. 

Sing  in  the  chimney  comer,  where  you 

sit. 
And  I'll  pace  gently  with  the  little  one. 


[lifot/ier  sings.] 

When  sparrows  build,  and   the  leaves 
break  forth. 
My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  cries, 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far,  far 
nonh. 
And  a  scarlet  sun  doth  rise  ; 
Like   a   scarlet    fleece    the    snow-field 
spreads, 
And  the  icy  founts  run  free. 
And   the   bergs   begin   to   bow   their 
heads, 
And  plunge,  and  sail  in  the  sea. 


O  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love. 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so ! 
Is  there  never  a   chink  in  the  world 
above 
Where  they  listen  for  words  from 
below  ? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee 
sore, 
I  remember  afl  that  I  said. 
And  now  tliou  wilt  hear  me  no  more  — 
no  more 
Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 


Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship, 
and  sail 
To  the  ice-fields  and  the  snow ; 
Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  nought 
avail. 
And  the  end  I  could  not  know  ; 
How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee 
to-day, 
Whom  that  day  I  held  not  dear  ? 
How  could  I  know  I  should  love  thee 
away 
When  1  did  not  love  thee  anear  ? 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the 
sodden  plain 
With  the  faded  bents  o'erspread, 
We  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seeth- 
ing main 
While   the  dark  wTack  drives  o'er- 
head  ; 
We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and 
the  rain. 
Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said : 
But   perhaps    I    shall   meet   thee    and 
know  thee  again 
When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

F.  Asleep  at  last,  and  time  he  was, 

indeed. 
Turn   back   the  cradle-quilt,   and    lay 

him  in ; 
And,  mother,  will  you  please  to  draw 

your  chair  ?  — 
The  suppei-'s  ready. 


SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTER. 

While  ripening  com  grew  thick  and 

deep, 
And  here  and  there  men  stood  to  reap, 
One  morn  I  put  my  heart  to  sleep, 

And  to  tlie  lanes  I  took  my  way. 
The  goldfinch  on  a  thistle-head 
.Stood  scattering  seedlets  while  she  fed ; 
The  wrens  their  pretty  gossip  spread, 

Or  joined  a  random  roundelay. 

On  hancing  cobwebs  shone  the  dew. 
And  thick  the  wayside  clovers  grew  ; 
The  feeding  bee  had  much  to  do. 
So  fast  did  honey-drops  exude : 


SCHOLAR  AND   CARPENTER. 


She  sucked  and  murmured,  and  was 

gone, 
And  lit  on  other  blooms  anon, 
The  while  I  learned  a  lesson  on 
The  source  and  sense  of  quietude. 

For  sheep-bells  chiming  from  a  wold, 
Or  bleat  of  lamb  within  its  fold, 
Or  cooing  of  love-legends  old 

To  dove-wives  make  not  guiet  less ; 
Ecstatic  chirp  of  winged  thing, 
Or  bubbling  of  the  water-spring. 
Are  sounds   that  more   than  silence 
bring 

Itself  and  its  delightsomeness. 

While  thus  I  went  to  gladness  fain, 
I  had  but  walked  a  mile  or  twain 
Before  my  heart  woke  up  again, 

As  dreaming  she  had  slept  too  late  ; 
The  morning  freshness  that  she  viewed 
With  her  own  meanings  she  endued, 
And  touched  with  her  solicitude 

The  natures  she  did  meditate. 

"  If  quiet  is,  for  it  I  wait  ; 
To  it,  ah  !  let  me  wed  my  fate, 
And,  like  a  sad  wife,  supplicate 

My  roving  lord  no  more  to  flee  ; 
If  leisure  is  —  but,  ah!  'tis  not  — 
'Tis  long  past  praying  for,  God  wot 
The  fashion  of  it  men  forgot. 

About  the  age  of  chivalry. 

"  Sweet  is  the  leisure  of  the  bird  ; 
She  craves  no  time  for  work  deferred  ; 
Her  wings  are  not  to  aching  stirred 

Providing  for  her  helpless  ones. 
Fair  is  the  leisure  of  the  wheat ; 
All  night  the  damps  about  it  fleet ; 
All  day  it  basketh  in  the  heat, 

And  grows,  and  whispers  orisons. 

"  Grand  is  the  leisure  of  the  earth  ; 
She  gives  her  happy  myriads  birth, 
And  after  harvest  fears  not  dearth, 

But  goes   to  sleep  in  snow-wreaths 
dim. 
Dread  is  the  leisure  up  above 
The  while  He  sits  whose  name  is  Love, 
And  waits,  as  Noah  did,  for  the  dove, 

To  wit  if  she  would  fly  to  him. 


"  He  waits  for  us,   while,   houseless 

things, 
We  beat  about  with  bruised  wings 
On  the  dark  floods  and  water-springs. 
The  ruined  world,  the  desolate  sea ; 
With  open  windows  from  the  prime 
All  night,  all  day,  He  waits  sublime, 
Until  the  fulness  of  the  time 
Decreed  from  His  eternity. 

"  Where  is  our  leisure? —  Give  us  rest. 

Where  is  the  quiet  we  possessed  ? 

We  must  have  had  it  once  —  were  blest 

With    peace   whose   phantoms   yet 
entice. 
Sorely  the  mother  of  mankind 
Longed  for  the  garden  left  behind  ; 
For  we   still   prove   some   yearnings 
blind 

Inherited  from  Paradise." 

"  Hold,  heart!  "  I  cried  ;  "  for  trouble 

sleeps ; 
I  hear  no  sound  of  aught  that  weeps ; 
I  will  not  look  into  thy  deeps  — 

I  am  afraid,  I  am  afraid!  " 
"Afraid!"   she  saith ;    "and  yet  'tis 

true 
That  what  man  dreads  he  still  should 

view  — 
Should  do  the  thing  he  fears  to  do. 
And  storm  the  ghosts  in  ambuscade." 

"  What  good  ? "   I  sigh.     "  Was  rea- 
son meant 
To  straighten  branches  that  are  bent, 
Or  soothe  an  ancient  discontent. 

The  instinct  of  a  race  dethroned  ? 
Ah !  doubly  should  that  instinct  go 
Must  the  four  rivers  cease  to  flow. 
Nor  yield  those  rumors  sweet  and  low 

Wherewith  man's  life  is  undertoned." 

"  Yet  had  I  but  the  past,"  she  cries, 
"  And  it  was  lost,  I  would  arise 
And  comfort  me  some  other  wise. 

But  more  than  loss  about  me  clings : 
I  am  but  restless  with  my  race  ; 
The  whispers  from  a  heavenly  place. 
Once  dropped  among  us,  seem  to  chase 

Rest  with  their  prophet-visitings. 

"  The  race  is  like  a  child,  as  yet 
Too  young  for  all  things  to  be  set 
Plainly  before  him  with  no  let 


SCHOLAR  AND   CARPENTER. 


Or  hindrance  meet  for  his  degree  ; 
But  ne'ertheless  by  much  too  old 
Not  to  perceive  that  men  withhold 
More  of  the  story  than  is  told, 

And  so  infer  a  mystery. 

"  If  the  Celestials  daily  fly 
With  messages  on  missions  high, 
And  float,  our  masts  and  turrets  nigh. 
Conversing   on    Heaven's  great    in- 
tents ; 
What  wonder  hints  of  coming  things. 
Whereto   man's   hope   and  yearning 

clings, 
Should   drop   like  feathers  from  their 
wings 
And  give  us  vague  presentiments  ? 

"  And  as  the  waxing  moon  can  take 
The  tidal  waters  in  her  wake 
And   lead   them   round   and   round   to 
break 

Obedient  to  her  drawings  dim  ; 
So  may  the  movements  of  his  mind. 
The  first  tjreat  Father  of  mankind, 
Affect  with  answering  movements  blind, 

And  draw  the  souls  that  breathe  by 
Him. 

"  We  had  a  message  long  ago 
That  like  a  river  peace  should  flow. 
And  Eden  bloom  again  below. 

We  heard,  and  we  began  to  wait : 
Full  soon  that  message  men  forgot ; 
Yet  waiting  is  their  destined  lot, 
And  wailing  for  they  know  not  what 

They  strive  with  yearnings  passion- 
ate. 

"  Regret  and  faith  alike  enchain  ; 
There  was  a  loss,  there  conies  a  gain  ; 
We  stand  at  fault  betwixt  the  twain, 

And  that  is  veiled  for  which  we  pant. 
Our  lives  are  short,  our  ten  times  seven  ; 
We  think  the  councils  held  in  heaven 
Sit  long,  ere  yet  that  blissful  leaven 

Work  peace  amongst  the  militant. 

"Then  we  blame  God  that  sin  should 

be: 
Adam  began  it  at  the  tree, 
'The  woman  whom  Thou  gavest  me  ;' 

And  we  adopt  his  dark  device. 
O  long  Thou  tarriest !  come  and  reign. 


And  bring  forgiveness  in  Thy  train, 
And  give  us  in  our  hands  again 
The  apples  of  Thy  Paradise.  " 

"  Far-seeing  heart!  if  that  be  all. 
The  happy  things  that  did  not  fall," 
I  sighed,  "from  every  coppice  call 

They  never  from  that  garden  went. 
Behold  their  joy,  so  comiort  thee, 
Behold  the  blossom  and  the  bee, 
For  they  are  yet  as  good  and  free 

As  when  poor  Eve  was  innocent. 

"  But  reason  thus  :  '  If  we  sank  low, 
If  the  lost  garden  we  forego, 
Each  in  his  day,  nor  ever  know 

But  in  our  poet  souls  its  face  ; 
Yet  we  may  rise  until  we  reach 
A  height  untold  of  in  its  speech  — 
A  lesson  that  it  could  not  teach 

Learn  in  this  darker  dwelling-place.' 

"  And  reason  on  :  '  We  take  the  spoil ; 
Loss  made  us  poets,  and  the  soil 
Taught  us  great  patience  in  our  toil, 

And  life  is  kin  to  God  through  death. 
Christ  were  not  One  with  us  but  so. 
And  if  bereft  of  Him  we  go  ; 
Dearer  the  heavenly  mansions  grow, 

His  home,  to  man  that  wandereth.' 

"  Content  thee  so,  and  ease  thy  smart." 
With  th.it  she  slept  again,  my  heart. 
And  I  admired  and  took  my  part 

With   crowds   of   happy   things   the 
while : 
With  open  velvet  butterflies 
That  swung  and  spread  their  peacock 

eyes. 
As  if  they  cared  no  more  to  rise 

From  off  their  beds  of  camomile. 

The  blackcaps  in  an  orchard  met, 
Praising  the  berries  while  they  ate: 
The  finch  that  flew  her  beak  to  whet 

Before  she  joined  them  on  the  tree  ; 
The  water  mouse  among  the  reeds  — 
His  bright  eyes  glancing  black  as  beads, 
So  happy  with  a  bunch  of  seeds  — 

I  felt  their  gladness  heartily. 

But  I  came  on,  I  smelt  the  hay, 
And  up  the  hills  I  took  my  way, 
And  down  them  still  made  holiday, 


SCHOLAR  AXD   CARPENTER. 


Andw'alked.  and  wearied  not  a  whit; 
But  ever  with  the  lane  I  went 
Until  it  dropped  with  steep  descent, 
Cut  deep  into  the  rock,  a  tent 

Of  maple  branches  roofing  it. 

Adown-  the  rock  small  runlets  wept. 
And  reckless  ivies  leaned  and  crept, 
And  little  spots  of  sunshine  slept 

On  its  brown  steeps  and  made  them 
fair; 
And  broader  beams  athwart  it  shot, 
Where    martins    cheeped   in   many   a 

knot, 
For  they  had  ta'en  a  sandy  plot 

And  scooped  another  Petra  there. 

And  deeper  down,  hemmed  in  and  hid 
From  upper  light  and  life  amid 
The  swallows  gossiping,  I  thrid 

Its  mazes,  till  the  dipping  land 
Sank  to  the  level  of  my  lane  : 
That  was  the  last  hill  of  the  chain, 
And  fair  below  I  saw  the  plain 

That  seemed  cold  cheer  to  reprimand. 

Half-drowned  in  sleepy  peace  it  lay. 
As  satiate  with  the  boundless  play 
Of  sunshine  on  its  green  array. 

And  clear-cut  hills  of  gloomy  blue 
To  keep  it  safe  rose  up  behind. 
As  with  a  charmed  ring  to  bind 
The  grassy  sea,  where  clouds    might 
find 

A  place  to  bring  their  shadows  to. 

I  said,  and  blest  that  pastoral  grace, 
"  How    sweet  thou   art,    thou    sunny 

place ! 
Thy  God  approves  thy  smiling  face  :  " 
But   straight  my  heart  put  in   her 
word  ; 
She  said,   "  Albeit  thy  face  I  bless. 
There  have  been  times,  sweet  wilder- 
ness. 
When  I  have  wished  to  love  thee  less. 
Such  pangs  thy  smile  adjninistered." 

But,  lo  !   I  reached  a  field  of  wheat. 
And  by  its  gate  full  clear  and  sweet 
A  workman  sang,  while  at  his  feet 
Played   a  young  child,   all  life   and 
stir  — 


A  three  years'  child,  with  rosy  lip, 
Who  in  the  song  had  partnership, 
Made  happy  with  each  falling  chip 
Dropped  by  the  busy  carpenter. 

This,  reared  a  new  gate  for  the  old. 
And  loud  the  tuneful  measure  rolled, 
But  stopped  as  I  came  up  to  hold 

Some  kindly  talk  of  passing  things. 
Brave   were   his   eyes,    and  frank   his 

mien  ; 
Of  all  men's  faces,  calm  or  keen, 
A  better  I  have  never  seen 

In  all  my  lonely  wanderings. 

And  how  it  was  I  scarce  can  tell, 

We  seemed  to  please  each  other  well ; 

I  lingered  till  a  noonday  bell 

Had  sounded,  and  his  task  was  done. 
An  oak  had  screened  us  from  the  heat ; 
And  'neath  it  in  the  standing  wheat, 
A  cradle  and  a  fair  retreat. 

Full  sweetly  slept  the  little  one. 

The  workman  rested  from  his  stroke, 
And  manly  were  the  words  he  spoke. 
Until  the  smiling  babe  awoke 

And  prayed  to  him  for  milk  and  food. 
Then  to  a  runlet  forth  he  went. 
And  brought  a  wallet  from  the  bent. 
And  bade  me  to  the  meal,  intent 

I  should  not  quit  his  neighborhood. 

"  For  here,"  said  he,  "are  bread  and 

beer, 
And  meat  enough  to  make  good  cheer ; 
Sir,  eat  with  me,  and  have  no  fear. 

For  none  upon  my  work  depend. 
Saving  this  child  ;  and  I  may  say 
That  I  am  rich,  for  ever}-  day 
I  put  by  somewhat  ;  therefore  stav. 

And  to  such  eating  condescend.'' 

We    ate.     The    child  —  child    fair    to 

see  — 
Began  to  cling  about  his  knee, 
And  he  down  leaning  fatherly 

Received  some  softly-prattled  prayer; 
He  smiled  as  if  to  list  were  balm, 
And  with  his  labor-hardened  palm 
Pushed  from  the  baby-forehead  calm 

Those  shining   locks  that   clustered 
there. 


SCHOLAR   AND  CARPENTER. 


23 


The  rosy  mouth  made  fresh  essay  — 
"  O  would  he  sing  or  would  he  play  ? " 
I  looked,  my  thought  would  make  its 

way  — 
"  Fair  is  your  child  of  face  and  limb, 
The    round    blue    eyes    full    sweetly 

shine." 
He  answered  me  with  glance  benign  — 
"  Ay,  Sir  ;  but  he  is  none  of  mine, 
Although  I  set  great  store  by  him." 

With  that,  as  if  his  heart  was  fain 
To  open  —  nathless  not  complain  — 
He  let  my  quiet  questions  gain 

His  story  :   "  Not  of  kin  to  me," 
Repeating  ;  "  but  asleep,  awake, 
For  worse,  for  better,  him  I  take, 
To  cherish  for  my  dead  wife's  sake, 

And  count  him  as  her  legacy. 

"  I  married  with  the  sweetest  lass 
That  ever  stepped  on  meadow  grass  ; 
That  ever  at  her  looking-glass 

Some  pleasure  took,   some   natural 
care  ; 
That  ever  swept  a  cottage  floor 
And  worked  all  day,  nor  e'er  gave  o'er 
Till  eve,  then  watched  beside  the  door 

Till  her  good  man  should  meet  her 
there. 

"  But  I  lost  all  in  its  fresh  prime  ; 
My  wife  fell  ill  before  her  tnne  — 
Just  as  the  bells  began  to  chime 

One  Sunday  mom.     By  next  day's 
light 
Her  little  babe  was  bom  and  dead. 
And  she,  unconscious  what  she  said, 
With  feeble  hands  about  her  spread, 

Sought  it  with  yearnings  infinite. 

"  With  mother-longins;  still  beguiled, 
And  lost  in  fever-fancies  wild. 
She  piteously  bemoaned  her  child 

That  we  had  stolen,  she  said,  away. 
And  ten  sad  days  she  sighed  to  me,- 
'  I  cannot  rest  until  I  see 
My  pretty  one !     I  think  that  he 

Smiled  in  my  face  but  yesterday.' 

"  Then  she  would  change,  and  faintly 

To  sing  some  tender  lullaby  ; 
And  '  Ah  !  '  would  moan,  '  if  I  should 
die, 


Who,  sweetest  babe,  would  cherish 
thee  ? ' 
Then  weep,  '  My  pretty  boy  is  grown ; 
With  tender  feet  on  the  cold  stone 
He  stands,  for  he  can  stand  alone, 

And  no  one  leads  him  motherly.' 

"  Then  she  with  dying  movements  slow 
Would  seem  to  knit,  or  seem  to  sew : 
'  His  feet  are  bare,  he  must  not  go 

Unshod :  '  and  as  her  death  drew  on, 
'  O  little  baby,'  she  would  sigh  ; 
'  My  little  child,  I  cannot  die 
Till  I  have  you  to  slumber  nigh  — 

You,  you  to  set  mine  eyes  upon.' 

"  When  she  spake  thus,  and  moaning 

lay. 
They  said,   '  She  cannot  pass  away, 
So  sore  she  longs  : '  and  as  the  day 

Broke  on  the  hills,  I  left  her  side. 
Mourning  along  this  lane  I  went : 
Some  travelling  folk  had  pitched  their 

tent 
Up  yonder:  there  a  woman,  bent 

With  age,  sat  meanly  canopied. 

"  A   twelvemonths'   child  was  at  her 

side  : 
'  Whose  infant  may  that  be  ? '   I  cried. 
'  His  that  will  own  him,'  she  replied  ; 

'  His  mother's  dead,  no  worse  could 
be.' 
'  Since  you  can  give — or  else  I  erred — 
See,  you  are  taken  at  your  word,' 
Quoth  I  ;  '  That  child  is  mine  ;  I  heard, 

And  own  him  !     Rise,  and  give  hira 


"  She  rose  amazed,  but  cursed  me  too ; 
.She  could  not  hold  such  luck  for  true. 
But  gave  him  soon,  with  small  ado. 

I  laid  him  by  my  Lucy's  side  : 
Close  to  her  face  that  baby  crept. 
And  stroked  it,  and  the  sweet  soul  wept ; 
Then,  while  upon  her  arm  he  slept. 

She  passed,  for  she  was  satisfied. 

"  I  loved  her  well,  I  wept  her  sore. 

And  when  her  funeral  left  my  door 

I  thought  that  I  should  never  more 

Feel  any  pleasure  near  me  glow ; 


24 


THE   STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


But  I  have  learned,  though  this  I  had, 
'Tis  sometimes  natural  to  be  glad, 
And  no  man  can  be  always  sad 
Unless  he  wills  to  have  it  so. 


"  Oh,  I  had  heavy  nights  at  first, 
And  daily  wakening  was  the  worst : 
For  then  my  grief  arose,  and  burst 

Like  something  fresh  upon  my  head  ; 
Yet  when  less  keen  it  seemed  to  grow, 
I  was  not  pleased  —  I  wished  to  go 
Mourning  adown  this  vale  of  woe, 

For  all  my  life  uncomforted. 

"  I  grudged  myself  the  lightsome  air, 
That  makes  man  cheerful  unaware  ; 
When  comfort  came,  1  did  not  care 

To  take  it  in,  to  feel  it  stir  : 
And  yet  God  took  with  me  His  plan, 
And  now  for  my  appointed  span 
1  think  I  am  a  liappier  man 

For  having  wed  and  wept  for  her. 

"  Because  no  natural  tie  remains, 
On  this  small  thing  I  spend  my  gains  ; 
God  makes  me  love  him  for  my  pains. 

And  binds  me  so  to  wholesome  care : 
I  would  not  lose  from  my  past  life 
That  happy  year,  that  happy  wife! 
Yet  now  I  wage  no  useless  strife 

With  feelings  blithe  and  debonair. 


"  I  have  the  courage  to  be  gay, 
Although  she  lieth  lapped  away 
Under  the  daisies,  for  I  say, 

'  Thou  wouldst  be  glad  if  thou  couldst 
see : ' 
My  constant  thought  makes  manifest 
I  have  not  what  1  love  the  best. 
But  I  must  thank  God  for  the  rest 

While  I  hold  heaven  a  verity." 


He  rose,  upon  his  shoulder  set 

The  child,  and  while  with  vague  regret 

We  parted,  pleased  that  we  had  met, 

My  heart  did  with  herself  confer; 
With  wholesome  shame  she  did  repent 
Her  reasonings  idly  eloquent, 
And  said,  "  1  might  be  more  content: 

But  God  go  with  the  carpenter." 


THE   STAR'S   MONUMENT. 

IN    THE    CONCLUDING    PART   OF  A   DIS- 
COURSE ON    FAME. 

We  thinks.] 

If  there  be  memory  in  the  world  to 

come. 
If  thought  recur  to  some  things  si- 
lenced here. 
Then  shall  the  deep  heart  be  no  longer 

dumb, 
But  find  expression  in  that  happier 

sphere  ; 
It  shall  not  be  denied  their  utmost  sum 
Of  love,  to  speak  without  or  fault  or 

fear. 
But  utter  to  the  harp  with  changes 

sweet 
Words  that,  forbidden  still,  then  heaven 

were  incomplete. 

[He  s/eaks.] 

Now  let  us  talk  about  the  ancient  days, 
And  things  which  happened  long  be- 
fore our  birth : 

It  is  a  pity  to  lament  that  praise 
Should  be  no  shadow  in  the  train  of 
worth. 

What   is  it.   Madam,  that  your  heart 
dismays? 

Why  murmur  at  the  course  of  this  vast 
earth? 

Think  rather  of  the  work  than  of  the 
praise ; 

Come,  we  will  talk  about  the  ancient 
days. 

There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said 

he); 
I  will  relate  his  story  to  you  now, 
While  through  the.  branches  of  this 

apple-tree 
Some  spots  of  sunshine  flicker  on 

your  brow ; 
While  every  flower  hath  on  its  breast  a 

bee. 
And  every  bird  in  stirring  doth  en- 
dow 
The  grass  with   falling  blooms  that 

smoothly  glide, 
As  ships  drop  down  a  river  with  the 

tide. 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


25 


For  telling  of  his  tale  no  fitter  place 
Than  this  old  orchard,  sloping  to  the 
west ; 
Through  its   pink  dome  of  blossom  I 
can  trace 
Some  overlying  azure  ;  for  the  rest, 
These  flowery  branches  round  us  in- 
terlace ; 
The  ground  is  hollowed  like  a  mossy 
nest: 
Who  talks  of  fame  while  the  religious 

spring 
Offers  the  incense  of  her  blossoming? 

There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said 

he), 
Wlio,  while  he  walked  at  sundown 

in  a  lane, 
Took  to  his  heart  the  hope  that  destiny 
Had  singled   him   this  guerdon  to 

obtam, 
That  by  the  power  of  his  sweet  min- 
strelsy 
Some  hearts  for  truth  and  goodness 

he  should  gain, 
And  charm  some  grovellers  to   uplift 

their  eyes 
And  suddenly   wax    conscious  of  the 

skies. 

"Master,  good  e'en  to  ye!  "   a  wood- 
man said. 
Who   the  low  hedge  was   trimming 

with  his  shears. 
" This  hour  is  fine"  — the  Poet  bowed 

his  head. 
"More  fine,"  he  thought,  "O  friend! 

to  me  appears 
Tlie   sunset   than   to    you ;    finer    the 

spread 
Of  orange  lustre  through  these  azure 

spheres, 
Where  little  clouds  lie  still,  like  flocks 

of  sheep. 
Or  vessels  saihng  in  God's  other  deep. 

"  O  finer  far!     What  work  so  high  as 
mine, 
Intei-preter  betwixt    the  world    and 
man. 
Nature's  ungathered  pearls  to  set  and 
shrine, 
The   mystery   she   viTaps  her  in   to 
scan : 


Her  unsyllabic  voices  to  combine. 
And  serve    her  with  such  love  as 
poets  can ; 
With  niortal  words,  her  chant  of  praise 

to  bind, 
Then  die,  and  leave  the  poem  to  mau- 
•    kind? 

"  O  fair,  O  fine,  O  lot  to  be  desired! 

Early  and  late  my  heart  appeals  to  me. 
And  says,    '  O  work,   O   will  —  Thou 
man,  be  fired 
To  earn   this  lot,'  —  she    says,     '  I 
would  not  be 
A  worker  for  mine  own  bread,  or  one 
hired 
For  mine  own  profit.    O,  I  would  be 
free 
To  work  for  others ;  love  so  earned  of 

them 
Should  be  my  wages  and  my  diadem. 


"  '  Then  when  I  died  I  should  not  fall,' 

says  she, 
'  Like  dropping  flowers  that  no  man 

noticeth, 
But  like  a  great  branch  of  some  stately 

tree 
Rent  in  a  tempest,  and  flung  down 

to  death, 
Thick   with    green    leafage  —  so  that 

piteously 
Each  i^asser  by  that  ruin  shuddereth, 
And  saith.  The  gap  this  branch  hath 

left  is  wide ; 
The  loss  thereof   can  never  be   sup- 
plied.' " 

But,  Madam,  while  the  Poet  pondered 

so, 
Toward  the  leafy  hedge  he  turned 

his  eye. 
And  saw  two  slender  branches  that  did 

grow. 
And  from  it  rising  spring  and  flourish 

high : 
Their  tops  were  twined  together  fast, 

and,  !o. 
Their  shadow  crossed  the  path  as  he 

went  by  — 
The  shadow  of  a  wild  rose  and  a  briar. 
And  it  was  shaped  in  semblance  like  a 

lyre. 


26 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


In  sooth,  a  lyre!    and  as  the  soft  air 

played, 
Those  branches  stirred,  but  did  not 

disunite. 
"O  emblem  meet  for  me!  "  the  Poet 

said ; 
"  Ay,  I  accept  and  own  thee  for  my 

right ; 
The  sliadov\7- 1  jTe  across  my  feet  is  laid. 
Distinct  though  frail,  and  clear  with 

crimson  light : 
Fast   is   it  twined   to   bear  the  windy 

strain. 
And,   supple,    it  will    bend    and    rise 

again. 

"  This  lyre  is  cast  across  the  dusty  way. 
The  common  path  that  common  men 
pursue ; 

I  crave  like  blessing  for  my  shadowy 
lay, 
Life's  trodden  paths  with  beauty  to 
renew. 

And  cheer  the    eve   of    many  a    toil- 
stained  day. 
Light  it,  old  sun,  wet  it,  thou  com- 
mon dew, 

That  'neath  men's  feet  its  image  still 
n\ay  be 

While  yet  it  waves  above  them,  living 
lyre,  like  thee!  " 

But  even  as  the  Poet  spoke,  behold 

He  lifted  up  his  face  toward  the  sky ; 
The  ruddy   sun  dipt  under  the  grey 
wold. 
His  shadowy  lyre  was  gone;  and, 
passing  by, 
The  woodman  lifting  up   his  shears, 
was  bold 
Their  temper  on  those  branches  twain 
to  tr>'. 
And   all   their  loveliness  and   leafage 

sweet 
Fell  in  the  pathway,  at  the  Poet's  feet. 

"Ah!  my  fair  emblem  that  I  chose," 
quoth  he, 
"  That  for  myself  I  coveted  but  now, 
Too  soon,  methinks,   thou  hast  been 
false  to  me ; 
The   I\Te   from   pathway  fades,   the 
light  from  brow." 


Then   straightway  turned   he   from   it 
hastily. 
As  dream  that  waking  sense  will  dis- 
allow ; 

And   wliile   the   highway  heavenward 
paled  apace. 

He  went  on  westward  to  his  dwelling^ 
place. 

He  went  on  steadily,  while  far  and  fast 
The  summer  darkness  dropped  upon 
the  world, 
A  gentle  air  among  the  cloudlets  passed 
And  fanned  away  their  crimson  ;  then 
it  curled 
The  yellow  poppies  in  the  field,   and 
cast 
A   dimness  on  the    grasses,   for    it 
furled 
Their  daisies,  and  swept  out  the  purple 

stain 
That  eve  had  left  upon  the  pastoral 
plain. 

He  reached  his  city.     Lo!  the  dark- 
ened street 
Where  he  abode  was  full  of  gazing 

crowds ; 
He  heard  the  muffled  tread  of  many 

feet; 
A   multitude    stood    gazing    at    the 

clouds. 
"  What  mark  ye  there,"  said  he,  "and 

wherefore  meet? 
Only  a  passing  mist  the  heaven  o'er- 

shrouds ; 
It  breaks,  it  parts,  it  drifts  like  scattered 

spars  — 
What  lies  behind  it  but  the    nightly 


Then   did   the  gazing  crowd  to    him, 
aver 
Thev  sought  a  lamp  in  heaven  whose 
light  was  hid; 
For  that  in  sooth  an  old  Astronomer 
Down  from  his  roof  had  rushed  into 
their  mid. 
Frighted,  and  fain  with  others  to  con- 
fer, 
That  he  had  cried,  "  0  sirs!  "  — and 
upward  bid 


THE   STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


27 


Them  gaze  —  "  O  sirs,  a  light  is  quench- 
ed afar ; 
Look  up,  my  masters,  we  have  lost  a 


The  people  pointed,  and  the  Poet's  eyes 
t  lew  upward,  where  a  gleaming  sis- 
terhood 
Swam  in  the  dewy  heaven.     The  very 
skies 
Were   mutable ;   for   all-amazed    he 
stood 
To  see  that  truly  not  in  any  wise 
He  could  behold  them  as  of  old,  nor 
could 
His  eyes  receive  the  whole  whereof  he 

wot, 
But  when  he  told  them  over,  one  was 

NOT. 

While  yet  he  gazed  and  pondered  rev- 
erently, 
The    fickle    folk    began    to    move 

away. 
"  It    is    but    one    star  less  for  us  to 

see  ; 
And  wliat  does  one  star  signify  ? ' '  quoth 

they ; 
"  The  heavens  are  full  of  them."  "  But, 

ah  !  "  said  he, 
"That  star  was  bright  while  yet  she 

lasted."  "  Ayl  " 
They  answered :  "praise  her,  Poet,  an' 

ye  will : 
Some  are  now  shining  that  are  brighter 

still." 


"  Poor  star  !  to  be  disparaged  so  soon 
On  her  withdrawal,"  thus  the  Poet 
sighed ; 
"That  men  should  miss,  and  straight 
denv  her  noon 
Its  brightness!  "     But  the  people  in 
their  pride 
Said,  "  How  are  we  beholden  ?  'twas  no 
boon 
She  gave.     Her  nature  'twas  to  shine 
so  wide : 
She  could  not  choose  but  shine,   nor 

could  we  know 
Such  star  had  ever  dwelt  in  heaven  but 


The   Poet   answered   sadly,   "That   is 

true  !  " 
And  then  he  thought  upon  unthank- 

fulness ; 
While  some  went  homeward ;  and  the 

residue, 
Reflecting  that  the  stars  are  number- 
less, 
Mourned   that    man's   daylight    hours 

should  be  so  few. 
So  short  the  shining  that  his  path 

may  bless: 
To    nearer    themes   then   tuned   their 

willing  lips. 
And  thought  no  more  upon  the  star's 

eclipse. 

But  he,  the  Poet,  could  not  rest  content 
Till  he  had  found  that  old  Astrono- 
mer ; 
Therefore   at   midnight   to  his    house 
he  went 
And  prayed  him  be  his  tale's  inter- 
preter. 
And  yet  upon  the  heaven  his  eyes  he 
bent, 
Hearing  the  marvel ;  yet  he  sought 
for  her 
That  was  awanting,  in  tlie  hope  her  face 
Once  more  might  fill  its  reft  abiding- 
place. 

Then  said  the  old  Astronomer:  "My 
son, 
I  sat  alone  upon  my  roof  to-night ; 
I  saw  the  stars  come  forth,  and  scarcely 
shun 
To  fringe  the  edges  of  the  western 

I  marked  those  ancient  clusters  one  by 
one. 
The  same  that  b'essed  our  old  fore- 
father's sight: 
For  God  alone  is  older  — none  but  He 
Can  charge  the  stars  with  mutability  : 

"The  elders  of   the  night,  the  stead- 
fast stars, 
The  old,  old  stars  which  God  has  let 
us  see. 
That  they  might  be  our  soul's  auxiliars, 
And  help  us  to  the  truth  how  young 
we  be  — 


28 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


God's  youngest,  latest  bom,  as  if,  some 

spars 
And  a  little  clay  being  over  of  them 

—  He 
Had  made  our  world  and  us  thereof, 

yet  given. 
To  humble  us,  the  sight  of  His  great 

heaven. 

"  But  ah  !  my  son,  to-night  mine  eyes 

have  seen 
The  death  of  light,  the  end  of  old 

renown ; 
A  shrinking  back  of  glory  that  had  been, 
A  dread  eclipse  before  the  Eternal's 

frown. 
How  soon  a  little  grass  will  grow  be- 
tween 
These  eyes  and  those  appointed  to 

look  dowTi 
Upon  a  world  that  was  not  made  on 

high 
Till  the  last  scenes  of  their  long  em- 

piry! 

"To-night  that  shining  cluster  now  de- 
spoiled 
Lay  in  day's  wake  a  perfect  sister- 
hood ; 

Sweet  was  its  light  to  me  that  long  had 
toiled, 
It  gleamed   and   trembled   o'er   the 
distant  wood ; 

Blown  in  a  pile  the  clouds  from  it  re- 
coiled. 
Cool   twilight   tip  the    sky  her  way 
made  good  ; 

I   saw,   but   not  believed — it  was   so 
strange  — • 

That  one  of  those  same  stars  had  suf- 
fered change. 

"  The    darkness    gathered,    and    me- 
thought  she  spread, 
Wrapped    in    a    reddish    haze  that 
w  axed  and  waned  ; 
But  notwithstanding  to  myself  I  said  — 
'  The  stars  are  changeless  ;  sure  some 
mote  hath  stained 
Mine   eves,    and  her  fair  glory   min- 
ishfed.' 
Of  age   and  failing  vision    I    com- 
plained, 


And  thought  '  some  vapor  in  the  heav- 
ens doth  swim. 

That  makes  her  look  so  large  ai)d  yet 
so  dim.' 

"  But  I  gazed  round,  and  all  her  lus' 

trous  peers 
In  her  red  presence  showed  but  wan 

and  white ; 
For  like  a  living  coal  beheld  through 

tears 
She   glowed    and    quivered  with    a 

gloomy  light : 
Methought   she   trembled,  as  all  sick 

through  fears. 
Helpless,  appalled,  appealing  to  the 

night ; 
Like  one  who  throws  his  arms  up  to 

the  sky 
And  bows  down  suffering,  hopeless  of 

reply. 

"  At  length,  as  if  an  everlasting  Hand 
Had  taken  hold  upon  her   in   her 

place. 
And    swiftly,  like    a   golden   grain   of 

sand, 
Through  all  the  deep  infinitudes  of 

space 
Was   draw  ing    her  —  God' s    truth    as 

here  I  stand  — 
Backward  and  inward  to  itself;  her 

face 
Fast  lessened,  lessened,  till  it  looked 

no  more 
Than  smallest  atom  on  a   boundless 

shore. 

And  she  that  was  so  fair,  I  saw  her  lie. 
The  smallest  thing  in  God's  great 
firmament. 
Till  night  was  at  the  darkest,  and  on 
high 
Her  sisters    glittered,    though   her 
light  was  spent ; 
I  strained,  to  follow  her,  each  aching 
eye. 
So  swiftly  at  her  Maker's  will  she 
went ; 
I   looked  again — I  looked  —  the  star 

was  gone. 
And  nothing  marked  in  heaven  where 
she  had  shone." 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


29 


"Gone!"  said  the  Poet,  "and  about 

to  be 
Forgotten :    O,    how    sad   a   fate   is 

hers !  '' 
"  How  is  it    sad,  my  son  ? "  all  rever- 
ently 
The   old  man    answered  ;  "  though 

she  ministers 
No  longer  with  her  lamp  to  me  and 

thee, 
She  has  fulfilled  her  mission.     God 

transfers 
Or  dims  her  ray ;  yet  was  she  blest  as 

bright, 
For  all   her  life  was  spent  in  giving 

light." 

"  Her  mission  she  fulfilled  assuredly," 
The  Poet  cried:    "but,  O  unhappy 
star! 
None  praise  and  few  will  bear  in  memory 
The  name  she  went  by.     O,  from  far, 
from  far 
Comes  down,  methinks,  her  mournful 
voice  to  me, 
Full  of  regrets  that  men  so  thankless 
are." 
So  said,  he  told  that  old  Astronomer 
All  that  the  gazing  crowd  had  said  of 
her. 

And  he  went  on  to  speak  in  bitter  wise. 
As  one  who  seems  to  tell  another's 
fate, 
But  feels  that  nearer  meaning  underlies. 
And  points  its  sadness  to  his  own  es- 
tate : 
"  If  such  be  the  reward,"  he  said  with 
sighs, 
"  Envy  to  earn  for  love,  for  goodness 
hate  — 
If  such    be  thy  reward,   hard   case  is 

thine ! 
It  had  been  better  for  thee  not  to  shine. 

"  If  to  reflect  a  light  that  is  divine 
Makes  that  which  doth  reflect  it  bet- 
ter seen. 
And  if  to  see  is  to  contemn  the  shrine, 
'Twere   surely   better   it   had   never 
been : 
It  had  been  better  for  her  not   to 

SHINE, 


And  for  me  not  to  sing.     Better,  I 

ween. 
For  us  to  vield  no  more  that  radiance 

bright. 
For  them,  to  lack  the  light  than  scorn 

the  light." 

Strange  words  were  those  from  Poet 

lips  (said  he) ; 
And  then  he  paused,and  sighed,  and 

turned  to  look 
Upon  the  lady's  downcast  eyes,  and  see 
How  fast  the  honey  bees  in  settling 

shook 
Those  apple  blossoms  on  her  from  the 

tree  ; 
He  watched  her  busy  fingers  as  they 

took 
And  slipped  the   knotted  thread,  and 

thought  how  much 
He  would  have  given  that  hand  to  hold 

—  to  touch. 

At  length,  as  suddenly  become  aware 
Of  this  long  pause,  she  lifted  up  her 
face. 
And  he  withdrew  his  eyes  —  she  looked 
so  fair 
And  cold,  he  thought,  in  her  uncon- 
scious grace. 
"  Ah  !  little  dreams  she  of  the  restless 
care," 
He  thought,  "  that  makes  my  heart 
to  throb  apace  : 
Though    we    this    morning    part,    the 

knowledge  sends 
No  thrill  to  her  calm  pulse  —  we  are 

but  FRIENDS." 

Ah  !  turret  clock  (he  thought),  I  would 

thy  hand 
Were  hid  behind  yon  towering  maple- 
trees! 
Ah  !  tell-tale  shadow,  but  one  moment 

stand  — 
Dark  shadow  —  fast  advancing  to  my 

knees  ; 
Ah  !  foolish  heart  (he  thought),  that 

vainly  planned 
By  feiirning  gladness  to  arrive  at  ease  ; 
Ah!  painful  hour,  yet  pain  to  think  it 

ends ; 
I    must   remember    that  we    are    but 

friends. 


30 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


And  while  the  knotted  thread  moved 
to  and  fro, 
In  sweet  regretful  tones  that  lady  said : 
"  It  seenieth  that  the  fame  you  would 
forego 
The  Poet  whom  you  tell  of  coveted  ; 
But  I  would  fain,  methinks,  his  story 
know. 
And  was  he  loved?"  said  she,  "or 
was  he  wed  ? 
And  had  he  friends?"     "  One  friend, 

perhaps,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  for  the  rest,  I  pray  you  let  it  be." 

Ah !  little  bird  (he  thought),  most  pa- 
tient bird. 
Breasting  thy  speckled  eggs  the  long 
day  through, 

By  so  much  as  my  reason  is  preferred 
Above    thine    instinct,    I    my  work 
would  do 

Better   than   thou    dost  thine.     Thou 
hast  not  stirred 
This   hour    thy   wing.     Ah !    russet 
bird,  I  sue 

For  a  like  patience  to  wea/  through 
these  hours  — 

Bird   on   thy  nest   among    the   apple- 
flowers. 

I  will  not  speak  —  I  will  not  speak  to 
thee, 
My  star !  and  soon  to  be  my  lost,  lost 
star. 
The  sweetest,  first,  that  ever  shone  on 
me, 
So  high  above  me  and  beyond  so  far; 
I  can  forego  thee,  but  not  bear  to  see 
My  love,  like  rising  mist,  thy  lustre 
mar : 
That  were  a  base  return  for  thy  sweet 

light. 
Shine,  though  I  never  more  shall  see 
that  thou  art  bright. 

Never!    'Tis  certain  that  no  hope  is  — 
none ! 
No  hope  for  me,  and  yet  for  thee  no 
fear. 
The  hardest  part  of  my  hard  task  is 
done  ; 
Thy  cnlm  assures  me  that  I  am  not 
dear ; 


Though  far  and  fast  the  rapid  moments 
run. 
Thy  bosom  heaveth  not,  thine  eyes 
are  clear  ; 
Silent,  perhaps  a  little  sad  at  heart 
She  is.     I  am  her  friend,  and  I  depart. 

Silent  she  had  been,  but  she  raised  her 

face  ; 
"And will  vou  end,"  said  she,  "this 

half-toid  tale  ? " 
"Yes,  it  were  best,"  he  answered  her. 

"  The  place 
Where  I  left  off  was  where  he  felt  to 

fail 
Hl^courage,  Madam,  through  the  fancy 

base 
That  they  who  love,  endure,  or  work, 

may  rail 
And  cease  ^  if  all  their  love,  the  works 

they  wrought. 
And  their  endurance,  men  have  set  at 

nought." 

'  It  had  been  better  for  me  not  to  sing," 
My  Poet  said,   "and  for  her  not  to 
shine ; " 
But  him  the  old  man  answered,  sorrow- 
ing, 
"  My  son,  did  God  who  made  her, 
the  Divine 
Lighter   of  suns,  when   down   to   yon 
bright  ring 
He  cast  her,  like  some  gleaming  al- 
mandine. 
And  set  her  in  her  place,  begirt  with 

rays. 
Say    unto    her   'Give     light,'    or   say 
'  Earn  praise  ? '  " 

The  Poet  said,  "  He  made  her  to  give 
light." 
"  My  son,"  the  old  man  answered, 
"  blest  are  such, 
A  blessed  lot  is  theirs  ;  but  if  each  night 
Mankind  had  praised  her  radiance  — 
inasmuch 
As  praise  had  never  made  it  wax  more 
bright, 
And  cannot    now  rekindle  with    its 
touch 
Her  lost  effulgence,  it  is  nought.     I  wot 
That  I'lraise  was  not  her  blessing   nor 
her  lot." 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


31 


"Ay,"  said   the   Poet,  "I  my  words 
abjure, 
And  I  repent  me  that  I  uttered  them  ; 
But  by  her  light  and  by  its  forfeiture 
She  shall  not   pass  without  her  re- 
quiem. 
Though  my  name  perish,  yet  shall  hers 
endure ; 
Though  I  should  be  forgotten,  she, 
lost  gem, 
Shall    be    remembered  ;■   though    she 

sought  not  fame, 
It  shall  be  busy  with   her  beauteous 
name. 


"  For  I  will  raise  in  her  bright  memory. 
Lost  now  on  earth,  a  lasting  monu- 
ment, 
And  graven  on  it  shall  recorded  be 
That  all  her  rays  to  light  mankind 
were  spent ; 
And  I  will  sing  albeit  none  heedeth  r.ie. 

On  her  exemplar  being  still  intent : 
While  in  men's  sight  shall  stand  tlie 

record  thus  — 
'So  long  as   she  did  last  she  lighted 


So  said,  he   raised,   according   to   his 
vow. 
On   the   green   grass,  where  oft   his 
townsfolk  met, 
Under  the  shadow  of  a  leafy  bough 

Tliat  leaned  toward  a  singing  rivulet. 

One   pure  wliite  stone,  whereon,  like 

crown  on  brow. 

The  image  of  the  vanished  star  was 

set ; 

And  this  was  graven  on  the  pure  white 

stone 
In  golden  letters — "  While  she  lived 

SHE  SHONE." 

Madam,  I  cannot  give  this  story  well  — 
My  heart  is  beating  to  another  chime  ; 
My  voice  must  needs  a  different  cadence 
swell ; 
It  is  yon  singing  bird,  which  all  the 
time 
Wooetli  his  nested  mate,  that  doth  dis- 
l)el 
Tily  tlionsrh  ts.   Wh  nt,  deem  you,  could 
a  lover's  rhyme 


The  sweetness  of  that  passionate  lay 
excel  ? 

0  soft,  O  low  her  voice — "I  cannot 

tell." 

[He  thinks.^ 
The  old  man  —  ay,  he  spoke,  he  was 
not  hard ; 
"She  was  his   joy,"  he    said,   "his 
comforter. 
But  he  would  trust  me.     I  was  not  de- 
barred 
Whate'er  my  heart  approved  to  say 
to  her." 
Approved!     O  torn  and  tempted  and 
ill-starred 
And  breaking  heart,  approve  not  nor 
demur ; 
It  is  the  serpent  that  beguileth  thee 
With  "God  doth  know"  beneath  this 
apple-tree. 

Yea,  God  doth  know,  and  only  God 
doth  know. 
Have  pit)',  God,  my  spirit  groans  to 
Thee! 

1  bear  Thy  curse  primeval,  and  I  go  ; 

Butlieavierthanon  Adam  falls  on  me 
My  tillage  of  the  wilderness  ;  for,  lo! 

I  leave  behind  the  woman,  and  I  see 
As  'twere  the  gates  of  Eden  closing 

o'er 
To  hide  her  from  my  sight  for  evermore. 

S_He  speaks.'X 
I  am  a  fool,  with  sudden  start  he  cried. 
To  let  the  song-bird  work  me  such 
unrest : 
If  I  break  off  again,  I  pray  you  chide. 
For  morning  fleeteth,  with  my  tale  at 
best 
Half  told.     That  white  stone.  Madam, 
gleamed  beside 
The'little  rivulet,  and  all  men  pressed 
To   read   the  lost   one's    story  traced 

thereon. 
The  golden  legend—  "  While  she  lived 
she  slione." 

And,    Madam,  when   the   Poet  heard 
them  read. 
And  children  spell  the  letters  softly 
through. 


32 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


It  may  be  that  he  felt  at  heart  some 

need, 
Some  craving  to  be  thus  remembered 

looi 
It  may  be  tliat  he  wondered  if  indeed 
He  must  die  wholly  when  he  passed 

from  view ; 
It  may  be,  wished,  when  death  his  eyes 

made  dim. 
That  some  kind  liand  would  raise  such 

stone  for  him. 

But  shortly,  as  there  comes  to  most  of 

us, 
There  came  to  him  the  need  to  quit 

his  home : 
To  tell  you  why  were  simply  hazardous. 
What  said  I,   Madam?  —  men  were 

made  to  roam 
My  meaning  is.     It  hath  been  always 

thus: 
They  are  athirst  for  mountains  and 

sea  foam ; 
Heirs  of   this  world,  what  wonder  if 

perchance 
They  long  to  see  their  grand  inheri- 
tance ? 

He  left  his  city,  and  went  forth  to  teach 
Mankind,  his  peers,  the  hidden  har- 
mony 

That  underlies  God's  discords,  and  to 
reach 
And  touch  the  master-string  that  like 
a  sigh 

Thrills  in  their  souls,   as  if   it  would 
beseech 
Some  hand  to  sound  it,  and  to  sat- 
isfy 

Its  yearning  for  expression:    but  no 
word 

Till  poet  touch  it  hath  to  make  its  mu- 
sic heard. 


\He  thinks. 'I 
I  know  that  God  is  good,  though  evil 
dwells 
Among  us,  and  doth  all  things  holi- 
est share ; 
Tliat  there  is  joy  in  heaven,  while  yet 
our  knells 
Sound  for  the  souls  which   He  has 
summoned  there  ; 


That    painful    love     unsatisfied    hath 
spells 
Earned  by  its  smart  to  soothe  its  fel- 
low's care : 

But    yet    this    atom    cannot    in    the 
whole 

Forget  itself — -it  aches  a  separate  soul. 

VHe  speaks.  ] 
But,  Madam,  to  my  Poet  I  return. 
With   his  sweet  cadences  of  woven 
words 
He  made  their  rude  untutored  hearts 
to  burn 
And    melt    like   gold   refined.      No 
brooding  birds 
Sing  better  of  the  love  that  doth  so- 
journ 
Hid  in  the  nest  of  home,  which  softly 
girds 
The  beating  heart  of  life  ;  and,  strait 

though  it  be, 
Is  straitness  better  than  wide  liberty. 

He  taught  them,  and  they  learned,  but 

not  the  less 
Remained  unconscious  whence  that 

lore  they  drew. 
But  dreamed  tliat  of  their  native  noble- 
ness 
Some   lofty  thoughts,   that  he   had 

planted,  grew ; 
His    glorious    maxims    in    a    lowly 

dress, 
Like  seed  sown  broadcast,  sprung  in 

all  men's  view. 
The  sower,  passing  onward,  was  not 

known. 
And  all   men   reaped   the   harvest   as 

their  own. 

It  may  be,  Madam,  that  those  ballads 
sweet, 
Whose  rhythmic  measures  yesterday 
we  simg. 
Which  time  and  changes  make  not  ob- 
solete, 
But  (as  a  river  bears  down  blossoms 
flung 
Upon  its  breast)  take  with  them  while 
they  fleet  — 
It   may  be   from   his  IjTe  that  first 
they  sprung: 


THE   STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


33 


But  who  can  tell,  since  work  surviveth 

fame  ?  — 
The  rhyme  is  left,  but  lost  the  Poet's 

name. 

He  worked,   and  bravely  he  fulfilled 

his  trust  — 
So  long  he  wandered  sowing  worthy 

seed. 
Watering  of  wayside  buds  that  were 

adust, 
And  touching  for  the  common   ear 

his  reed  — 
So  long  to  wear  away  the  cankering 

rust 
That  dulls  the  gold  of  life —  so  long 

to  plead 
With  sweetest  music  for  all  souls  oi> 

pressed, 
That  he  was  old  ere  he  had  thought  of 

rest. 

Old   and   grey-headed,    leaning    on    a 
staff, 
To  that  great  city  of   his   birth   he 
came. 
And  at  its  gates  he  paused  with  won- 
dering laugh 
To  think  how  changed  were  all  his 
thoughts  of  fame 
Since  first  he  carved  the  golden  epi- 
taph 
To  keep  in  memory  a  worthy  name. 
And  thought  forgetfulness  had  been  its 

doom 
But  for  a  few  bright  letters  on  a  tomb. 

The   old  Astronomer  had   long  since 

died ; 
The  friends  of  youth  were  gone  and 

far  dispersed ; 
Strange  were  the  domes  that  rose  on 

every  side ; 
Strange  fountains  on  his  wondering 

vision  burst ; 
The  men  of  yesterday  their  business 

l>lied ; 
No  face  was  left  that  he  had  known 

at  first  ; 
And    in    the    city    gardens,    lo!     he 

sees 
The  saplings  that  lie  set  are  stately 

trees- 


Upon  the  grass  beneath  their  welcome 
shade, 
Behold!    he    marks   the   fair  white 
monument. 
And  on  its  face  the  golden  words  dis- 
played, 
For  sixty  years  their  lustre  have  not 
spent ; 
He  sitteth  by  it  and  is  not  afraid. 
But   in   its    shadow  he  is  well  con- 
tent ; 
And  envies    not,   though   bright   their 

gleamings  are. 
The  golden  letters  of  the  vanished  star. 

He  gazeth  up ;    exceeding  bright  ap.- 
pears 
That  golden  legend  to  his  aged  eyes. 

For  they  are  dazzled  till  they  fill  with 
tears. 
And  his  lost  Youth  doth  like  a  vision 
rise ; 

She   saith   to  him,  "  In  all  these  toil- 
some years. 
What  hast  thou  won  by  work  or  en- 
terprise? 

What  hast  thou  won  to  make  amends 
to  thee, 

As  thou  didst  swear  to  do,  for  loss  of 
me? 

"  O  man  !  O  white-haired  man  !  "  the 

vision  said, 
"  Since  we  two  sat  beside  this  monu- 
ment 
Life's  clearest  hues  are  all  evanished, 
The  golden  wealth  thou  hadst  of  me 

is  spent ; 
The  wind  hatli  swept  thy  flowers,  their 

leaves  are  shed ; 
The  music  is  plajed  out  tliat  with 

thee  went." 
"Peace,    peace!"   he  cried;    "I  lost 

thee,  but,  in  truth. 
There  are  worse  losses  than  the  loss  of 

youth." 

He  said  not  what  those  losses  were  — 
but  I  — 
But  I  must  leave  them,  for  the  time 
draws  near. 
Some  lose  not  only  joy,  but  memory 
Of  how  it  felt :  not  love  that  was  so 
dear 


34 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


Lose  only,  but  tlie  steadfast  certainty 
That  once  they  liad  it ;  doubt  comes 
on,  then  fear, 
And  after  that  despondency.     I  wis 
The  Poet  must  have  meant  such  loss  as 
this. 

But  while  he  sat  and  pondered  on  his 
youth. 
He  said,  "  It  did  one  deed  that  doth 
remain, 
For  it  preserved  the  memorj'  and  the 
truth 
Of  her  that  now  doth  neither  set  nor 
wane, 
But  shine  in  all  men's  thoughts ;  nor 
sink  forsooth. 
And  be  forgotten  like  the  summer  rain. 
O,  it  is  good  that  man  should  not  forget 
Or  benefits  foregone  or  brightness  set !  " 

He  spoke  and  said,  "  My  lot  contenteth 

me ; 
I  am  right  glad  for  this  her  worthy 

fame : 
That  which  was  good  and  great  I  fain 

would  see 
Drawn  with  a  halo  round  what  rests 

—  its  name." 
This  while  the  Poet  said,  behold,  there 

came 
A  workman  with  his  tools  anear  the 

tree, 
And  when  he  read  the  words  he  paused 

awhile 
And  pondered  on  them  with  a  wonder- 
ing smile. 

And  then  he  said,  "  I  pray  you,  Sir, 

what  mean 
The  golden   letters   of    this    monu- 
ment?" 
In  wonder  quoth  the  Poet,  "  Hast  thou 

been 
A  dweller  near  at  hand,  and  their 

intent 
Hast  neither  heard  by  voice  of  fame, 

nor  seen 
The   marble   earlier?"     "Ay,"  said 

he,  and  leant 
Upon  his  spade  to  hear  the  tale,  then 

sigh, 
And  say  it  was  a  marvel,  and  pass  by. 


Then  said  the  Poet,  "This  is  strange 

to  me." 
But  as  he  mused,  with  trouble  in  his 

mind, 
A    band    of    maids    approached    him 

leisurely, 
Like  vessels  sailing  with  a  favoring 

wind  ; 
And  of  their  rosy  lips  requested  he. 
As  one  that  for  a  doubt  would  solving 

find. 
The  tale,   if  tale  there  were,   of  that 

white  stone. 
And  those   fair  letters — "While  she 

lived  she  shone." 

Then  like  a  fleet  that  floats  becalmed 
they  stay. 
"O,    Sir,"    saith  one,  "this  monu- 
ment is  old ; 
But  we  have  heard  our  virtuous  mothers 
say 
That  by  their  mothers  thus  the  tale 
was  told : 
A  Poet  made  it ;  jounieying  then  away. 
He  left  us ;   and   though   some   the 
meaning  hold 
For  other  than  the  ancient  one,  yet  we 
Receive  this  legend  for  a  certainty  :  — 

"There  was  a  lily  once,  most  purely 
white. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  these  boughs 
it  grew  ; 
Its  starry  blossom  it  unclosed  by  night, 
And  a  young  Poet  loved  its  shape 
and  hue. 
He  watched  it  nightlj',  'twas  so  fair  a 
sight. 
Until  a  stormy  wind  arose  and  blew, 
And   when    he    came   once   more   his 

flower  to  greet 
Its  fallen  petals  drifted  to  his  feet. 

"  And  for  his  beautiful  white  liU-'s  sake. 
That    she    might    be    remembered 
where  her  scent 
Had  been  right  sweet,  he  said  that  he 
would  make 
In  her  dear  memory  a  monument: 
For  she  was  purer  than  a  driven  flake 
Of  snow,  and  in  her  grace  most  ex- 
cellent ; 


THE   STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


35 


The  loveliest  life  that  death  did  ever 

mar, 
As  beautiful  to  gaze  on  as  a  star." 

"  I   thank   you,  maid,"   the   Poet   an- 
swered her, 
"And  I  am  glad  that  I  have  heard 

your  tale." 
With    that    they  passed ;   and    as    an 

inlander, 
Having  heard  breakers  raging  in  a 

gale 
And  falling  down  in  thunder,  will  aver 
That  still,  when  far  away  in  grassy 

vale. 
He  seems  to  hear  those  seething  waters 

bound, 
So  in  his  ears  the  maiden's  voice  did 

sound. 

He  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hand,  and 
thought 
And  thought,  until  a  youth  came  by 
that  way ; 
And  once  again  of  him  the  Poet  sought 
The  story  of  the  star.     But,  well-a- 
day ! 
He   said,    "The   meaning  with  much 
doubt  is  fraught, 
The  sense  thereof  can  no  man  surely 
say, 
For  still  tradition  sways  the  common 

ear. 
That  of  a  truth  a  star  did  disappear. 

"  But  they  who  look  beneath  the  outer 
shell 
That  wraps  the  'kernel  of  the  peo- 
ple's lore,' 
Hold  THAT  for  superstition  ;  and  they 
tell 
That  seven  lovely  sisters  dwelt  of  yore 
In  tliis  old  city,  where  it  so  befell 
That  one  a  Poet  loved  ;  that,  further- 
more, 
As  stars  above  us  she  was  pure  and 

good, 
And  fairest  of  that  beauteous  sister- 
hood. 

"  So  beautiful  they  were,  those  virgins 
seven, 
That  all  men  called  them  clustered 
stars  in  song, 


Forgetful  that  the  stars  abide  in  heaven : 
But   woman   bideth   not   beneath    it 

long  ; 
For  O,  alas!  alas!  one  fated  even, 
When  stars  their  azure  deeps  Ijegan 

to  throng, 
That  virgin's  eyes  of  Poet  loved  wa.xed 

dim. 
And  all  tlieir  lustrous  shining  waned  to 

him. 

"  In   summer   dusk   she   drooped   her 
head  and  sighed 
Until    what    time   the   evening   star 
went  down. 

And  all  the  other  stars  did  shining  bide 
Clear  in  the  lustre  of   their  old  re- 
nown, 

And  then  —  the  virgin  laid  her  down 
and  died : 
Forgot  her  youth,  forgot  her  beauty's 
crown. 

Forgot   the   sisters   whom    she    loved 
before, 

And  broke  her  Poet's  heart  for  ever- 
more." 

"A  mournful  tale,  in  sooth,"  the  lady 
saith  : 
"  But  did  he  truly  grieve  for  ever- 
more?" 
"  It  may  be  you  forget,"  he  answereth, 
"That  this  is  but  a  fable  at  the  core 
O'  the  other  fable."      "Though  it  be 
but  breath," 
She  asketh,  "was  it  true?"     Then 
he,  "  This  lore. 
Since  it  is  fable,  either  way  may  go  ; 
Then,  if  it  please  you,  think  it  might 
be  so." 

"  Nay,  but,"  she  saith,  "if  I  had  told 
your  tale. 
The   virgin    should   have   lived    his 
home  to  bless, 
Or,  must  slie  die,  I  would  have  made 
to  fail 
His  useless  love."     "  I  tell  you  not 
the  less," 
He  sighs,  "because  it  was  of  no  avail : 
His  heart  the  Poet  would  not  dis- 
possess 
Thereof.   But  let  us  leave  the  fable  now, 
My  Poet  heard  it  with  an  aching  brow." 


36 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


And  he  made  answer  thus:  "I  thank 
thee,  youth  ; 
Strange  is  thy  story  to  these  aged  ears, 
But   I    bethink   me   thou  hast  told  a 
truth 
Under  the  guise  of  fable.  If  my  tears, 
Thou  lost  beloved  star,  lost  now,  for- 
sooth. 
Indeed  could  bring  thee  back  among 
thy  peers, 
So  new  thou  shouldst  be  deemed  as 

newly  seen. 
For  men   forget  that  thou   hast  ever 
been. 

"  There  was  a  morning  when  I  longed 

for  fame, 
There  was  a  noontide  when  I  passed 

it  by, 
Tliere  is  an  evening  when  I  think  not 

shame 
Its  substance  and  its  being  to  deny  ; 
For  if  men  bear  in  mind  great  deeds, 

the  name 
Of  him  that  wrought  them  shall  they 

leave  to  die  ; 
Or  if  his  name  they  shall  have  deathless 

writ. 
They  change  the  deeds  that  first  enno- 
bled it. 

"  O  golden  letters  of  this  monument ! 
O  words  to  celebrate  a  loved  renown 
Lost  now  or  wrested,   and  to  fancies 
lent. 
Or  on    a    fabled    forehead    set    for 
crown ! 
For  my  departed  star,  I  am  content. 
Though  legends  dim  and  years  her 
memory  drown : 
For  what  were  fame  to  her,  compared 

and  set 
By  this  great  truth   which   ye    make 
lustrous  yet  ?" 

"Adieu!"  the  Poet  said,   "my  van- 
ished star, 
Thy  duty  and   thy  happiness  were 
one. 
Work  is  heaven's  hest ;   its    fame    is 
sublunar  ; 
The  fame  tliou  dost  not  need  —  the 
work  is  done. 


For  thee  I  am  content  that  these  things 

are ; 
]\Iore  than  content  were  I,  my  race 

being  run, 
Might  it  be  true  of  me,  though  none 

thereon 
Should    muse    regretful  — '  While    he 

lived  he  shone.' " 

So  said,   the   Poet  rose  and  went  his 
way. 
And  that  same  lot  he  proved  whereof 
he  spake. 
Madam,  my  story  is  told  out ;  the  day 
Draws   out   her  shadows,  time  doth 
overtake 
The  morning.     That  which  endeth  call 
a  lay, 
Sung  after  pause  —  a  motto  in   the 
break 
Between  two  chapters  of  a  tale  not  new, 
Nor    joyful  —  but     a    common     tale. 
Adieu! 

And  that  same  God  who  made  your 
face  so  fair. 
And    gave  your  woman's  heart  its 
tenderness, 
So  shield  the  blessing   He  implanted 
there. 
That  it  may  never  turn  to  your  dis- 
tress, 
And  never  cost  you  trouble  or  despair, 
Nor,  granted,  leave  the  granter  com- 
fortless ; 
But    like    a    river,   blest    where'er    it 

flows. 
Be  still  receiving  while  it  still  bestows. 

Adieu,  he  said,  and  paused,  while  she 
sat  mute 
In  the  soft  shadow  of  the  apple-tree ; 
The  skylark's  song  rang  like  a  joyous 
flute. 
The  brook  went  prattling  past  her 
restlessly  : 
She  let  their  tongues  be  her  tongue's 
substitute  ; 
It  was  the  wind  that  sighed,  it  was 
not  she : 
And  what  the  lark,  the  brook,  the  wind, 

had  said. 
We  cannot  tell,  for  none  interpreted. 


A  DEAD  YEAR. 


37 


Tlieir  counsels  might  be  hard  to  rec- 
oncile, 
They  might  not  suit  the  moment  or 

the  spot. 
She  rose,  and  laid  her  work  aside  the 

whfle 
Down  in  the  sunshine  of  that  grassy 

plot ; 
She  looked  upon  him  with  an  almost 

smile, 
And  held  to  him  a  hand  that  faltered 

not. 
One-  moment  —  bird   and   brook   went 

warbling  on, 
And  the  wind  sighed  again  —  and  he 

was  gone. 

So  quietly,  as  if  she  heard  no  more 
Or  skylark  in  the  azure  overhead, 
Or  water  slipping  past  the  cressy  shore. 
Or  wind  that  rose  in  sighs,  and  sigh- 
ing fled— 
So  quietly,  until  the  alders  hoar 
Took   him   beneath   ihem;   till    the 
downward  spread 
Of  planes  engulfed  him  in  their  leafy 

seas 
She    stood    beneath   her  rose-flushed 
apple-trees. 

And  then  she  stooped  toward  the  mossy 

grass, 
And  gathered  up  her  work  and  went 

her  way ; 
Straight  to  that  ancient  tuiTet  she  did 

pass, 
And  startle   back  some  fawns  that 

were  at  play. 
She    did    not     sigh,    she    never    said 

"Alas!  " 
Although    he   was    her   friend :    but 

still  that  day, 
Where   elm   and   hornbeam   spread   a 

towering  dome, 
She  crossed  the  dells  to  her  ancestral 

home. 


And  did  she  love  him?  —  what  if  she 

did  not? 
Then  home  was   still  the  home  of 

happiest  years ; 
Nor  thought  was  exiled  to  partake  his 

lot, 


Nor  heart  lost  courage  through  fore- 
bodmg  fears ; 
Nor  echo  did  against  her  secret  plot, 

Nor  music  her  betray  to  paniful  tears  ; 
Nor  life  become  a  dream,  and  sunshine 

dim, 
And  riches  poverty,  because  of  him. 

But  did  she  love  him?  —  what  and  if 
she  did? 
Love  cannot  cool  the  burning  Austral 
sand. 
Nor  show  the  secret  waters  that  lie  hid 

In  arid  valleys  of  that  desert  land. 
Love  has  no  spells  can  scorching  winds 
forbid. 
Or  bring  the  help  which  tarries  near 
to  hand, 
Or  spread  a  cloud  for  curtaining  faded 

eyes 
That  gaze  up  dying  into  alien  skies. 


A   DEAD   YEAR. 

I  TOOK   a  year  out  of  my  life  and 
story  — 

A   dead  year,   and   said,  "  I  will  hew 
thee  a  tomb! 
'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in 
glory ; ' 

Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred 
gloom  ; 

Swathed   in   linen,    and   precious    un- 
guents old ; 

Painted  with  cinnabar,   and  rich  with 
gold 

"  Silent  they  rest,  in  solemn  salvatory, 
Sealed  from  the  moth  and  the  owl  and 
the  flittermouse  — 
Each  with  his  name  on  his  brow. 
'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in 
glory. 
Every  one  in  his  own  house : ' 
Then  why  not  thou? 

"  Year,"  I  said,  "thou  shalt  not  lack 
I'ribes  to  bar  thy  coming  back  ; 
Doth  old  Eg>'pt  wear  her  best 
In  the  chambers  of  her  rest? 


A  DEAD  YEAR. 


Doth  she  take  to  her  last  bed 
Beaten  gold,  and  glorious  red? 
Kiivy  not !  for  thou  wilt  wear 
In  the  dark  a  shroud  as  fair; 
Golden  with  the  sunny  ray 
Thou  withdrawest  from  my  day  ; 
Wrought  upon  with  colors  fine 
Stolen  from  this  life  of  mine: 
Like  the  dusty  Libyan  kings, 
Lie  with  two  wide-open  wings 
On  thy  breast,  as  if  to  say, 
On  these  wings  hope  flew  away ; 
And  so  housed,  and  thus  adorned, 
Not  forgotten,  but  not  scorned, 
Let  the  dark  for  evermore 
Close  thee  when  I  close  the  door; 
And  the  dust  for  ages  fall 
In  the  creases  of  thy  pall ; 
And  no  voice  nor  visit  rude 
Break  thy  sealed  solitude." 

I  took  the  year  out  of  my  life  and 
story. 
The    dead    year,    and   said,    "  I   have 
hewed  thee  a  tomb ! 
'AH  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in 
glory,' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred 

gloom ; 
But  for  the  sword,  and  the  sceptre,  and 
diadem. 
Sure  ihou  didst  reign  like  them." 
So  I  laid  her  with  those  tyrants  old  and 
hoary, 

According  to  my  vow  ; 
For  I  said,  "The  kings  of  the  nations 
lie  in  glory. 

And  so  shall  thou!  " 

"Rock,"  I  said,  "thy  ribs  are  strong. 

That  I  bring  thee  guard  it  long  ; 

Hide  the  light  from  buried  eyes  — 

Hide  it,  lest  the  dead  arise  " 

"  Year,"  I  said,  and  turned  away, 

"  I  am  free  of  ihee  this  day  ; 

All  that  we  two  only  know, 

I  forgive  and  1  forego. 

So  thy  face  no  more  1  meet 

In  the  field  or  in  the  street." 

Thus  we  parted,  she  and  I ; 
Life  liid  death,  and  put  it  by  ; 
Life  hid  death,  and  said,  "  Be  free! 
I  have  no  more  need  of  thee." 


No  more  need!     O  mad  mistake, 
With  repcniance  in  its  wake! 
Iguoiant,  a.,d  rash,  and  blind, 
Life  had  left  the  grave  behind ; 
But  had  lucked  wuhin  iis  hold. 
With  the  spices  and  the  go.d, 
All  she  had  to  keep  her  warm 
In  the  raging  ot  the  storm. 

Scarce  the  sunset  bloom  was  gone, 
And  the  little  stars  outshone. 
Ere  the  dead  year,  stiff  and  stark. 
Drew  me  to  her  in  the  dark  ; 
Death  drew  life  to  come  to  her, 
Beating  at  her  sepidchre, 
Crj'ing  out,  "  How  can  I  part 
With  the  best  share  of  my  heart? 
Lo,  it  lies  upon  the  bier. 
Captive,  with  the  buried  year. 

0  my  heart!  "     And  1  fell  prone, 
Weeping  at  the  sealed  stone  ; 

"  Year  among  the  shades,"   1  said, 
"  Since  I  live,  and  thou  art  dead, 
Let  my  cai>tive  heart  be  free 
Like  a  bird  to  fly  to  me." 
And  I  stayed  some  voice  to  win. 
But  none  answered  from  within  ; 
And  I  kissed  the  door  —  and  night 
Deepened  till  the  stare  waxed  bright) 
And  1  saw  them  set  and  wane, 
And  the  world  turned  green  again. 

"So,"  I  whispered,  "open  door, 

1  must  tread  this  palace  floor  — 
Sealed  palace,  rich  and  dim. 
Let  a  narrow  sunbeam  swim 
After  me,  and  on  me  spread 
While  I  look  upon  my  dead ; 
Let  a  little  warmth  be  free 

To  come  after ;  let  me  see 
Through  \\\t  doorway,  when  I  sit 
Looking  out,  the  swallows  flit, 
Settling  not  till  daylight  goes  ; 
Let  ine  smell  the  wild  white  rose, 
.Smell  the  woodbine  and  the  may ; 
Mark,  upon  a  sunny  day, 
.Sated  from  their  blossoms  rise 
Honey-bees  and  butterflies. 
Let  me  hear,  O!  let  ine  hear. 
Sitting  by  my  buried  year. 
Finches  chirping  to  their  young, 
And  the  little  noises  flung 
Out  of  clefts  where  rabbits  play. 
Or  from  falling  water-spray  ; 


REFLECTIONS. 


And  the  gracious  echoes  woke 
By  man's  work  :  the  woodman's  stroke, 
Shout  of  sheplierd,  whisthngs  bhthe, 
And  the  wheitmg  of  the  scythe  ; 
Let  this  be,  lest,  shut  and  furled 
From  the  well-beloved  world, 
I  forget  her  yearnings  old. 
And  her  troubles  maiiifold. 
Strivings  sore,  submissions  meet, 
And  my  pulse  no  longer  beat. 
Keeping  time  and  bearing  part 
With  the  pulse  of  her  great  heart. 

"So!  swing  open,  door,  and  shade 
Take  me :   1  am  not  afraid. 
For  the  time  will  not  be  long ; 
Soon  I  shall  have  waxen  strong  — 
Strong  enough  my  own  to  win 
From  the  grave  it  lies  within." 

And  I  entered.     On  her  bier 
Quiet  lay  the  buried  year ; 
1  sat  down  where  I  could  see 
Life  without  and  sunshine  free, 
Death  within.     And  I  between, 
Waited  my  own  heart  to  wean 
From  the  shroud  that  shaded  her 
In  the  rock-hewn  sepulchre  — 
Waited  till  the  dead  should  say, 
"  Heart,  be  free  of  me  this  day"  — 
Waited  with  a  patient  will  — 

And    I    WAIT    BETWEEN    THEM    STILL. 

I  take  the  year  back  to  my  life  and 
story. 
The  dead  year,  and  say,  "  I  will  share 
in  thy  tomb. 
'AH  the  kings  of  th2  nations  lie  in 
glory ;  ' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred 

gloom ! 
They   reigned    in    their  lifetime   with 
sceptre  and  diadem. 
But  thou  excellest  tliein  ; 
For  life  doth  make  thy  grave  her  ora- 
tory. 
And  the  crown  is  still  on  thy  brow  ; 
'All   the   kings  of    the  nations  lie  in 
glory,' 
And  so  dost  thou." 


REFLECTIONS 

Written  for  the  Portfolio   Society, 
Jtdy,  iS62. 

LOOKING  OVER  A    GATE   AT   A    POOL  IN 
A  FIELD. 

What  change  has  made  the  pastures 

sweet 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 

And  cloud  that  wears  a  golden  hem? 
This     lovely     world,     the     hills,     the 

sward  — 
They  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 
But  yesterday  had  finished  them. 

And  here's  the  field  with  light  aglow ; 
How    fresh     its    boundary    lime-trees 
show. 
And  huw  its   wet   leaves  trembling 
shine ! 
Between  their  trunks  come  through  to 

me 
The  morning  sparkles  of  the  sea 
Below  the  level  browsing  line. 

I  see  the  pool  more  clear  by  half   ~ 
Than  pools  where  other  waters  laugh 

Up  at  the  breasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
1  saw  reflected  yesterday 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-pail. 

There,  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste, 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

The  other  lifted  to  her  pail. 
She,  rosy  in  the  morning  light. 
Among  the  water-daisies  white. 

Like  some  fair  sloop  appeared  to  sail. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod 
The  lucky  buttercups  did  nod. 

I  leaned  upon  the  gate  to  see : 
The  sweet  thing  looked,  but  did  not 

speak  ; 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek. 

And  all  my  heart  was  gone  from  me. 

Then,  as  I  lingered  on  the  gate. 
And  she  came  up  like  coming  fate, 
1  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes  — 


40 


THE  LETTER  L. 


Clear  dancing  eyes,  more  black  than 

sloes, 
Cheeks  like  the  mountain  pink,   that 

grows 
Among  white-headed  majesties. 

I  said,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  I  would  fain  to  thee  unfold ; 

Ah!  let  me  —  let  me  tell  the  tale." 
But  high  she  held  her  comely  head; 
"  I  cannot  heed  it  now,"  she  said, 

"  For  carr>'ing  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     What  good    to    make 

ado? 
I  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  through, 

And  took  her  homeward  path  anon. 
From  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  fled ; 
It  rested  on  my  heart  instead. 

Reflected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

With  happy  youth,  and  work  content, 
So  sweet  and  stately  on  she  went, 

Right  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 
Each  step  she  took  I  loved  her  more, 
And  followed  to  her  dairy  door 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail. 


For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth 

lurk. 
How  fine,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work! 
For  work  does  good  when  reasons 
fail  — 
Good  ;  yet  the  axe  at  every  stroke 
The  echo  of  a  name  awoke  — 
Her  name  is  Mary  Martindale. 

I'm  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Aright  by  other  men  :  a  bird 

Knows  doubtless  what  his  own  notes 
tell ; 
And  I  know  not  ;  but  I  can  say 
I  felt  as  shame-faced  all  that  day 
As   if  folks   he.ard   her   name   right 
well. 

And  when  the  west  began  to  glow 
I  went  —  I  could  not  choose  but  go  — 

To  that  same  dairy  on  the  hill  ; 
And  while  sweet  Mary  moved  about 
Within,  I  came  to  her  without. 

And  leaned  upon  the  window-sill. 


The  garden  border  where  I  stood 
Was  sweet  with   pinks  and  southern- 
wood. 
I    spoke  —  her    answer    seemed    to 
fail; 
I  smelt  the  pinks —  I  could  not  see ; 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered 
me, 
And  in  the  dusk  she  heard  my  tale. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
I  begged  a  kiss,  I  pleaded  well : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline  ; 
But  yet  I  think,  I  tliink  't  is  true, 
That,  leaned  at  last  into  the  dew. 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine. 

O  life !  how  dear  thou  hast  become : 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  I  was  dumb, 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair    shine    the    blue    that    o'er    her 

spreads. 
Green  be  the  pastures  where  she  treads, 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail ! 


THE   LETTER  L. 


We  sat  on  grassy  slopes  that  meet 

With  sudden  dip  the  level  strand; 
The  trees  hung  overhead  —  our  feet 
Were  on  the  sand. 

Two  silent  girls,  a  thoughtful  man. 

We  sunned  ourselves  in  open  light, 
And  felt  such  April  airs  as  fan 
The  Isle  of  Wight ; 

And  smelt  the  wall-flower  in  the  crag 
Whereon  that  dainty  waft  had  fed,  _ 
Which    made    the    bell-hung    cowslip 
wag 
Her  delicate  head ; 

And  let  alighting  jackdaws  fleet 

Adown  it  o]ien-winged,  and  pass 
Till  they  could  touch  with  outstretched 
feet 
The  warmed  grass. 


THE  LETTER  L. 


The  happy  wave  ran  up  and  rang 

Like  service  bells  a  long  way  off, 
And  down  a  little  freshet  sprang 
From  mossy  trough, 

And  splashed  into  a  rain  of  spray, 

And  fretted  on  with  daylight's  loss, 
Because  so  many  blue-bells  lay 
Leaning  across. 

Blue  martins  gossiped  in  the  sun. 
And  pairs  of   chattering  daws  flew 

And  sailmg  brigs  rocked  softly  on 
In  company. 

Wild  cherry  boughs  above  us  spread 

The  whitest  shade  was  ever  seen. 
And  flicker,  flicker,  came  and  fled 
Sun-spots  between. 

Bees    murmured    in    the    milk-white 
bloom 
As  babes  will  sigh  for  deep  content 
When   their  sweet  hearts    for    peace 
make  room, 
As  given,  not  lent. 

And  we  saw  on :  we  said  no  word. 

And  one  was  lost  in  musings  rare, 
One  buoyant  as  the  waft  that  stirred 
Her  shining  hair. 

His  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  sand, 

Unfathomed  deeps  within  them  lay ; 
A  slender  rod  was  m  his  hand  — 
A  hazel  spray. 

Her  eyes  were  resting  on  his  face, 
As  shyly  glad  by  stealth  to  glean 
Impressions  of  his  manly  grace 
And  guarded  mien ; 

The  mouth  with  steady  sweetness  set. 

And  eyes  conveying  unaware 
The  distant  hint  of  some  regret 
That  harbored  there. 

She  gazed,  and  in  the  tender  flush 

That  made  her  face  like  roses  blown. 
And  in  the  radiance  and  the  hush. 
Her  thought  was  shown. 


It  was  a  happy  thing  to  sit 

So  near,  nor  mar  his  reverie ; 
She  looked  not  for  a  part  in  it, 
So  meek  was  she. 

But  it  was  solace  for  her  eyes. 
And  for  her  heart,  that  yearned  to 
him. 
To  watch  apart  in  loving  wise 
Those  musings  dim. 

Lost  —  lost,  and  gone !     The  Pelham 
woods 
Were  full  of    doves  that  cooed  at 
ease ; 
The  orchis  filled  her  purple  hoods 
For  dainty  bees. 

He  heard  not ;  all  the  delicate  air 

Was  fresh  with  falling  water-spray  ' 
It  mattered  not  —  he  was  not  there. 
But  far  away. 

Till  with  the  hazel  in  his  hand. 

Still   drowned   in    thought,    it  thus 
befell  ; 
He  drew  a  letter  on  the  sand  — 
The  letter  L. 

And    looking    on    it,    straight    there 
wrought 
A  ruddy  flush  about  his  brow; 
His  letter  woke  him  :  absent  thought 
Rushed  homeward  now. 

And,  half-abashed,  his  hasty  touch 

Effaced  it  with  a  tell-tale  care. 
As  if  his  action  had  been  much, 
And  not  his  air. 

And  she?  she  watched  his  open  palm 

Smooth  out  the  letter  from  the  sand, 
And  rose,  with  aspect  almost  calm, 
And  filled  her  hand 

With  cherry  bloom,  and  moved  away 

To  gather  wild  forget-me-not, 
And  let  her  errant  footsteps  stray 
To  one  sweet  spot. 

As  if  she  coveted  the  fair 

White  lining  of  the  silver  weed. 
And  cuckoo-pint  that  shaded  there 
Empurpled  seed. 


42 


THE  LETTER  L. 


She  had  not  feared,  as  I  divine, 

Because  she  had  not  hoped.     Alas  I 
The  sorrow  of  it !  for  that  sign 
Came  but  to  pass  ; 

And  yet  it  robbed  her  of  the  right 

To  give,  who  looked  not  to  receive. 
And  made  her  blush  in  love's  despite 
That  she  should  grieve. 

A  shape  in  white,  she  turned  to  gaze  ; 
Her  eyes  were  shaded  with  her  hand, 
And  half-way  up  the  winding  ways 
We  saw  her  stand. 

Green  hollows  of  the  fringed  cliff. 

Red  rocks  that  under  waters  show, 
Blue  reaches,  and  a  sailing  skiff, 
Were  spread  below. 

She  stood  to  gaze,  perhaps  to  sigh, 

Perhaps  to  think ;  but  who  can  tell 
How  heavy  on  her  heart  must  lie 
The  letter  L! 


She  came  anon  with  quiet  grace ; 
And  "What,"  she  murmured,  "si- 
lent yetl  " 
He  answered,  "  'T  is  a  haunted  place, 
And  spell-beset. 

"  O  speak  to  us,  and  break  the  spell !  " 
■'The  spell  is  broken,"  she  replied. 
*'  I  crossed  the  running  brook,  it  fell. 
It  could  not  bide. 

"  And  I  have  brought  a  budding  w'orld 

Of  orchis  spires  and  daisies  rank. 
And  ferny  pliuiies  but  half  uncurled. 
From  yonder  bank ; 

"And  I  shall  weave  of  them  a  crown. 
And  at  the  wel'-head  launch  it  free. 
That  so  tlie  brook  may  float  it  down. 
And  out  to  sea. 

"There  may  it  to  some  English  hands 

From  fairy  meadow  seem  to  come  ; 
The  fairyest  of  fairy  lands  — 
The  land  of  home." 


"  Weave  on,"  he  said,  and  as  she  wove 

We  told  how  currents  in  the  deep, 
With  branches  from  a  lemon  grove, 
Blue  bergs  will  sweep. 

And  messages  from  shipwrecked  folk 

Will  navigate  the  moon-led  main. 
And  painted  boards  of  splintered  oak 
Their  port  regain. 

Then  floated  out  by  vagrant  thought, 

My  soul  beheld  on  torrid  sand 
The  wasteful  water  set  at  nought 
Man's  skilful  hand. 

And  suck  out  gold-dust  from  the  box, 
And  wash  it  down  in  weedy  whirls, 
And  split  the  wine-keg  on  the  rocks. 
And  lose  the  pearis. 

"  Ah !  why  to  that  which  needs  it  not," 
Methought,  "should  costly  things  be 
given  ? 
How  much  is  wasted,  wrecked,  forgot, 
On  this  side  heaven!  " 

So  musing,  did  mine  ears  awake 

To  ma. den  tones  of  sweet  reserve. 
And  manly  speech  that  seemed  to  make 
The  steady  curve 

Of  lips  that  uttered  it  defer 
Their    guard,    and    soften    for    the 
thought : 
She  listened,  and  his  talk  with  her 
Was  fancy  fraught. 

"There  is  not  much  in  liberty"  — 
With  doubtful  pauses  he  began  ; 
And  said  to  her  and  said  to  me, 
"  There  was  a  man  — 

"  There  was  a  man  who  dreamed  one 
night 
That  his  dead  father  came  to  him, 
And  said,  when  fire  was  low,  ar.d  lit;ht 
Was  burning  dim  — 

"'Why  vagrant    thus,   my  sometime 
pride, 
Unloved,  unloving,  wilt  thou  roam  ? 
Sure  home  is  best  1 '     The  son  replied, 
'  I  have  no  home.' 


THE  LETTER  L. 


43 


'•'"Shall  not  I  speak?'  his  father  said, 

'  Who  early  chose  a  youthful  wife, 
And  worked  for  her,  and  with  her  led 
My  happy  life. 

"  '  Ay,  I  will  speak,  for  I  was  young 
As  thou  art  now,  when  1  did  hold 
The  prattling  sweetness  of  thy  tongue 
Dearer  than  gold ; 

"  '  And  rosy  from  thy  noonday  sleep 
Would  bear  thee  to  admiring  kin. 
And  all  thy  pretty  looks  would  keep 
My  heart  within. 

"  'Then  after,  'mid  thy  young  allies  — 
For  thee  ambition  flushed  my  brow  — 
I  coveted  the  schoolboy  prize 
Far  more  than  thou. 

"  '  I  thought  for  thee,  I  thought  for  all 
My  gamesome  imps  that  round  me 
grew  ; 
The  dews  of  blessing  heaviest  fall 
Where  care  falls  too. 

"  '  And  I  that  sent  my  boys  away, 
In  youthful   strength  to  earn  their 
bread, 
And  died  before  the  hair  was  grey 
Upon  my  head  — 

"  '  I  say  to  thee,  though  free  from  care, 

A  lonely  lot,  an  aimless  life, 
The  crowning  comfort  is  not  there  — 
Son,  take  a  wife.' 

"  '  Father  beloved,'  the  son  replied. 
And  failed  to  gather  to  his  breast, 
With  arms  in  darkness  searching  wide, 
The  formless  guest. 

"  '  I  am  but  free,  as  sorrow  is. 

To  dry  her  tears,  to  laugh,  to  talk ; 
And  free,  as  sick  men  are,  I  wis, 
To  rise  and  walk. 

"  '  And  free,  as  poor  men  are,  to  buy 
If   they   have  nought  wherewith   to 
pay ; 
Nor  hope  the  debt,  before  they  die, 
To  wipe  away. 


"  '  What  'vails  it  there  are  wives  to  win, 
And  faitlrf  ul  hearts  for  those  to  yearn. 
Who  find  not  aught  thereto  akin 
To  make  return  ? 

"  '  Shall  he  take  much  who  little  gives, 

And  dwells  in  spirit  far  away. 
When  she  that  in  his  presence  lives, 
Doth  never  stray, 

"  '  But,  waking,  guideth  as  beseems 

The  happy  house  in  order  trim. 
And  tends  her   babes  ;  and,   sleeping, 
dreams 
Of  them  and  him  ? 

"  '  O  base,  O  cold,'  "  — while  thus  he 
spake 
The  dream  broke  off,  the  vision  fled ; 
He  carried  on  his  speech  awake, 
And  sighing  said  — 

"  '  I  had  —  ah,  happy  man!  — I  had 

A  precious  jewel  in  my  breast, 
And  while  I  kept  it  I  was  glad 
At  work,  at  rest ! 

"  '  Call  it  a  heart,  and  call  it  strong 

As  upward  stroke  of  eagle's  wing  ; 
Then  call  it  weak,  you  shall  not  wrong 
The  beating  thing. 

"  '  In  tangles  of  the  jungle  reed. 

Whose  heats  are  lit  with  tiger  eyes. 
In  shipwreck  drifting  with  the  weed 
'Neath  rainy  skies, 

"  '  Still  youthful  manhood,  fresh   and 
keen. 
At  danger  gazed  with  awed  delight, 
As  if  sea  would  not  drown,  I  ween, 
Nor  serpent  bite. 

"  '  I  had  —  ah,  happy!  but  'tis  gone, 
The  priceless  jewel  ;  one  came  by. 
And  saw  and  stood  awhile  to  con 
With  curious  eye, 

"  '  And  wished  for  it,  and  faintly  smiled 

From  under  lashes  black  as  doom. 
With  subtle  sweetness,  tender,  mild, 
That  did  illume 


44 


THE  LETTER  L. 


"  '  The  perfect  face,  and  shed  on  it 

A  charm,  half  feeling,  half  surprise, 
And  brim  with  dreams  the  exquisite 
Brown  blessed  eyes. 

"  '  Was  it  for  this,  no  more  but  this, 

I  took  and  laid  it  in  her  hand, 
By  dimples  ruled,  to  hint  submiss, 
By  f rovm  unmanned  ? 

"  '  It  was  for  this  —  and  O  farewell 

The  fearless  foot,  the  present  mind, 
And  steady  will  to  breast  the  swell 
And  face  the  wind ! 

"  '  I  gave  the  jewel  from  my  breast, 

She  played  with  it  a  little  while 
As  I  sailed  down  into  the  west, 
Fed  by  her  smile  ; 

"  'Then  weary  of  it  —  far  from  land, 

With  sigh  as  deep  as  destiny. 
She  let  it  drop  from  her  fair  hand 
Into  the  sea, 

" '  And  watched  it  sink  ;  and  I  —  and 
I, — 
What  shall  I  do,  for  all  is  vain? 
No  wave  will  bring,  no  gold  will  buy, 
No  toil  attain ; 

"  '  Nor  any  diver  reach  to  raise 

My  jewel  from  the  blue  abyss  ; 
Or  could  they,  still  I  should  but  praise 
Their  work  amiss. 

"  '  Thrown,  thrown  away !     But  I  love 
yet 
The  fair,  fair  hand  which   did   the 
deed: 
That  wayward  sweetness  to  forget 
Were  bitter  meed. 

"  '  No,  let  it  lie,  and  let  the  wave 

Roll  over  it  for  evermore  ; 
W^helmed  where   the   sailor  hath  his 
grave  — 
The  sea  her  store. 

" '  My    heart,    my    sometime    happy 
heart ! 
And  O  for  once  let  me  comjilain, 
I  must  forego  life's  better  part  — 
Man's  dearer  gain. 


"  '  I  worked  afar  that  I  might  rear 

A  peaceful  home  on  English  soil ; 
I  labored  for  the  gold  and  gear  — 
I  loved  my  toil. 

"  '  For  ever  in  my  spirit  spake 

The  natural  whisper,  "  VVell  'twill  be 
When  loving  wife  and  children  break 
Their  bread  with  thee !  " 

"  '  The  gathered  gold  is  turned  to  dross, 

The  wife  hath  faded  into  air,  ^ 

My  heart  is  thrown  away,  my  loss 
1  cannot  spare. 

" '  Not    spare    unsated    thought    her 
food  — 
No,  not  one  rustle  of  the  fold. 
Nor  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 
Nor  gleam  of  gold  ; 

"  '  Nor  quaint  devices  of  the  shawl. 

Far  less  the  drooping  lashes  meek ; 
The  gracious  figure,  lithe  and  tall, 
The  dimpled  cheek ; 

"  '  And  all  the  wonders  of  her  eyes, 

And  sweet  caprices  of  her  air, 
Albeit,  indignant  reason  cries. 
Fool !  have  a  care. 

"  '  Fool !  join  not  madness  to  mistake  ;■ 

Thou  knowest  she  loved  thee  not  a 
whit; 
Only  that  she  thy  heart  might  break  — 
She  wanted  it, 

"  '  Only  the  conquered  thing  to  chain 
So  fast  that  none  might  set  it  free. 
Nor  other  woman  there  might  reign 
And  comfort  thee. 

"  '  Robbed,   robbed   of  life's   illusions 
sweet ; 
Love  dead  outside  her  closed  door, 
And  passion  fainting  at  her  feet 
To  wake  no  more  ; 

"  '  What  canst  thou  give  that  unknown 
bride 
Whom  thou  didst  work   for  in  the 
waste. 
Ere  fated  love  w'as  born,  and  cried  — 
Was  dead,  ungraced? 


THE  LETTER  L. 


45 


"  '  No  more  but  this,  the  partial  care, 

The  natural  kindness  for  its  own. 
The  trust  that  waxeth  unaware, 
As  worth  is  known : 

"  '  Observance,  and  complacent  thought 

Indulgent,  and  the  honor  due 
That  many  another  man  has  brought 
Who  brought  love  too. 

"  '  Nay,  then,  forbid  it,  Heaven ! '  he 
said, 
'The  saintly  vision  fades  from  me  ; 

0  bands  and  chains !  1  cannot  wed  — 

I  am  not  free.'  " 

With  that  he  raised  his  face  to  view ; 
"What  think  you,"  asking,  "  of  my 
tale? 
And  was  he  right  to  let  the  dew 
Of  morn  exhale, 

"  And  burdened  in  the  noontide  sun, 
The  grateful  shade  of  home  forego  — 

Could  he  be  right  —  I  ask  as  one 
Who  fain  would  know?" 

He  spoke  to  her  and  spoke  to  me  ; 

The  rebel  rose-hue  dyed  her  cheek  ; 
The  woven  crown  lay  on  her  knee  ; 
She  would  not  speak. 

And  I  with  doubtful  pause  —  averse 
To  let  occasion  drift  away  — 

1  answered —  "  If  his  case  were  worse 

Than  word  can  say, 

"  Time  is  a  healer  of  sick  hearts, 
And   women   have   been   known    to 
choose. 
With  purpose  to  allay  their  smarts, 
And  tend  their  bruise, 

"These  for   themselves.     Content  to 
give, 
In  their  own  lavish  love  complete, 
Taking  for  sole  prerogative 
Their  tendance  sweet. 

"  Such  meeting  in  their  diadem 

Of  crowning  love's  ethereal  fire, 
Himself  he  robs  who  robbeth  them 
Of  their  desire. 


"Therefore  the  man  who,   dreaming, 
cried 
Against  his  lot  that  evensong, 
I  judge  him  honest,  and  decide 
That  he  was  wrong." 

•'  When  I  am  judged,  ah,  may  my  fate," 
He  whispered,  "  in  tliy  code  1  e  read! 
Be  thou  both  judge  and  advocate." 
Then  turned,  he  said  — 

"Fair  weaver!"  touching,    while  he 
spoke, 
The  woven  crown,  the  weaving  hand, 
"  And  do  you  this  decree  revoke, 
Or  may  it  stand  ? 

"This    friend,    you    ever    think    her 
right  — 
She  is  not  wrong,  then?"     Soft  and 
low 
The  little  trembling  word  took  flight : 
She  answered,  "  No." 


PRESENT. 

A  meadow  where  the  grass  was  deep, 

Rich,  square,  and  golden  to  the  view, 
A  belt  of  elms  with  level  sweep 
About  it  grew. 

The  sun  beat  dovra  on  it,  the  line 

Of  shade  was  clear  beneath  the  trees ; 
There,  by  a  clustering  eglantine, 
We  sat  at  ease. 

And  O  the  buttercups!  that  field 

O'  the  cloth  of  gold,  where  pennons 
swam  — 
Where  France  set  up  his  lilied  shield, 
His  oriflamb. 

And  Henry's  lion-standard  rolled: 

What  was  it  to  their  matchless  sheen, 
Their  million  million  drops  of  gold 
Among  the  green ! 

We  sat  at  ease  in  peaceful  trust, 

For  he  had  written,  "  Let  us  meet ; 
My  wife  grew  tired  of  smoke  and  dust. 
And  London  heat, 


THE  LETTER  L. 


"  And  I  h:\ve  found  a  quiet  grange, 

Set  back  in  meadows  sloping  west, 
And  there  our  little  ones  can  range 
And  she  can  rest. 

"Come  down,  that  we  may  show  the 
view, 
And  she  may  hear  your  voice  again, 
And  tnlk  her  woman's  talk  with  you 
Along  the  lane."  * 

Since  he  had  drawn  with  listless  hand 

The  letter,  six  long  years  had  Hed, 
And  winds  had  blown  about  the  sand, 
And  they  w  ere  wed. 

Two  rosy  urchins  near  him  played, 
Or  watched,  entranced,  the  shapely 
sh  ips 
That  with  his  knife  for  them  he  made 
Of  elder  slips. 

And  where  the  flowers  were  thickest 
shed, 
Each  blossom  like  a  burnished  gem, 
A  creeping  baby  reared  its  head. 
And  cooed  at  them. 

And  calm  was  on  the  father's  face, 

And  love  was  in  the  mother's  eyes ; 
She  looked  and  listened  from  her  place, 
In  tender  wise. 

She  did  not  need  to  raise  her  voice 

That  they  might  hear,  she  sat  so  nigh  ; 
Yet  we   could  speak  when  'tw'as  our 
choice. 
And  soft  reply. 

Holding  our  quiet  talk  apart 

Of  household  things  ;  till,  all  unsealed, 
The  guarded  outworks  of  the  heart 
Began  to  yield ; 

And  much  that  prudence  will  not  dip 

The  pen  to  fix  and  send  away, 
Passed  safely  over  from  the  lip 
That  summer  day. 

"  I  should  be  happy,"  with  a  look 

Towards  her  husband  where  he  lay. 
Lost  in  the  pages  of  his  book, 
Soft  did  she  say  ; 


"  I  am,  and  yet  no  lot  below 

For  one  whole  day  eludeth  care; 
To  marriage  all  the  stories  flow, 
And  finish  there ; 

"  As  if  with  marriage  came  the  end, 

The  entrance  into  settled  rest. 
The  calm  to  which  love's  tossings  tend, 
The  quiet  breast. 

"  For  me  love  plaj'ed  the  low  preludes. 

Vet  life  began  but  with  the  ring. 
Such  infinite  solicitudes 
Around  it  cling. 

"  I  did  not  for  my  heart  divine 

Her  destiny  so  meek  to  grow  ; 
The  higher  nature  matched  witli  mine 
Will  have  it  so. 

"  Still  I  consider  it,  and  still 

Acknowledge  it  my  master  made, 
Above  me  by  the  steadier  will 
Of  nought  afraid. 

"  Above  me  by  the  candid  speech  ; 

The  temperate  judgment  of  its  own  ; 
The  keener  thoughts  that  grasp   and 
reach 
At  things  unknown. 

"  But  I  look  up  and  he  looks  down. 

And  thus  our  married  eyes  can  meet; 
Unclouded  his,  and  clear  of  frown. 
And  gravely  sweet. 

"  .^nd  yet,  O  good,  O  wise  and  true! 

I  would  for  all  my  fealty, 
That  I  could  be  as  much  to  you 
As  you  to  me ; 


y 


"  And  knew  the  deep  secure  content 

Of  wives  who  have  been  hardly  won- 
And,  long  petitioned,  gave  assent. 
Jealous  of  none. 

"  But  proudly  sure  in  all  the  earth 
No  other  in  that  homage  shares, 
Nor  other  woman's  face  or  worth 
Is  prized  as  theirs." 


THE  LETTER  L. 


47 


I  said  :  "  A  ttd  yet  no  lot  heloiu 

For  o7ie  luhoie  day  eliidetli  care. 
Your  thought."    She  answered,  "  Even 
so. 
I  would  beware 

"  Regretful  questionings  ;  be  sure 

Th  It  very  seldom  do  they  rise, 
Nor  for  myself  do  I  endure  — 
1  sympathize. 

"For  once"  —  she   turned   away  her 
head, 
Across    the    grass    she    swept    her 
hand  — 
"  There  was  a  letter  once,"  she  said, 
"  Upon  the  sand." 

"There  was,  in  truth,  a  letter  writ 
On  sand,"   I  said,  "  and  swept  from 
view ; 
But  that  same  hand  which  fashioned  it 
Is  given  to  you. 

"  Efface  the  letter;  wherefore  keep 

An  image  which  the  sands  forego?" 
"  Albeit  that  fear  had  seemed  to  sleep," 
She  answered  low, 

"  I  could  not  choose  but  wal;e  it  now  ; 

For  do  but  turn  aside  your  face, 
A  house  on  yonder  hilly  brow 
Your  eyes  may  trace. 

"  The  chestnut  shelters  it ;  ah  me, 
Thit  I  should  have  so  faint  a  heart ! 
But  yester  eve,  as  by  the  sea 
I  sat  apart, 

"  I  heard  a  name,  I  saw  a  hand 

Of  passing  stranger  point  that  way  — 
And  will  he  meet  her  on  the  strand. 
When  late  we  stray  ? 

"  For  she  is  come,  for  she  is  there, 
I  heard  it  in  the  dusk,  and  heard 
Admiring  words,  that  named  her  fair. 
But  little  stirred 

"  By  beauty  of  the  wood  and  wave. 
And  weary  of  an  old  man's  sway  ! 
For  it  was  sweeter  to  enslave 
Than  to  obey." 


—  The  voice  of  one  that  near  us  stood, 

1  he  rustle  of  a  silken  fold, 
A  sc.;nt  of  eastern  sandalwood, 
A  gleam  of  gold  ! 

A  lady  !     In  the  narrow  space 

Between  the  husband  and  the  wife, 
But  nearest  him  —  she  showed  a  face 
With  dangers  rife ; 

A  subtle  smile  that  dimpling  fled. 

As  night-black  lashes  rose  and  fell : 
I  looked,  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"  The  letter  L." 

He,  too,  looked  up,  and  with  arrest 

Of  breath  and  motion  held  his  gaze, 
Nor  cared  to  hide  within  his  breast 
His  deep  amaze ; 

Nor  spoke  till  on  -her  near  advance 

His  dark  cheek  flushed  a  ruddier  hue  ; 
And  with  his  change  of  countenance 
Hers  altered  too. 

"  Lenore !  "  his  voice  was  like  the  cry 

Of  one  entreating  ;  and  he  said 
But   that  —  then   paused  with  such  a 
sigh 
As  mourns  the  dead. 

And  seated  near,  with  no  demur 

Of  bashful  doubt  she  silence  broke, 
Though  I  alone  could  answer  her 
When  first  she  spoke. 

She   looked:    her  eyes  were  beauty's) 
own  ;  / 

She  shed  their  sweetness  into  his ;    ' 
Nor  spared  the  married  wife  one  moan 
That  bitterest  is. 

She  spoke,  and,  lo,  her  loveliness 
Methought   she   damaged  with  her 
tongue  ; 
And  every  sentence  made  it  less, 
So  false  they  rung. 

The  rallving  voice,  the  light  demand. 

Half  flippant,  half  unsatisfied  ; 
The  vanity  sincere  and  bland  — 
The  answers  wide. 


48 


THE  LETTER  L. 


And  now  her  talk  was  of  the  East, 

And  next  her  talk  was  of  the  sea  ; 
"  And  has  the  love  for  it  increased 
You  shared  with  me  ? " 

He  answered  not,  but  grave  and  still 
With  earnest  eyes  her  face  perused, 
And  locked  his  lips  with  steady  will, 
As  one  that  mused  — 

That  mused  and  wondered.     Why  his 
gaze 
Should  dwell  on  her,  methought,  was 
plain  ; 
But  reason  that  should  wonder  raise 
I  sought  in  vain. 

And  near  and  near  the  children  drew. 

Attracted  by  her  rich  array, 
And  gems  that  trembling  into  view 
Like  raindrops  lay. 

He  spoke  :  the  wife  her  baby  took 

And  pressed  the  little  face  to  hers  ; 
What  pain  soe'  er  her  bosom  shook. 
What  jealous  stirs 

Might  stab  her  heart,  she  hid  them  so. 

The  cooing  babe  a  veil  supplied  ; 
And  if  she  listened  none  might  know, 
Or  if  she  sighed  ; 

Or  if,  forecasting  grief  and  care. 

Unconscious  solace  thence  she  drew. 
And  lulled  her  babe,  and  unaware 
Lulled  sorrow  too. 

The  lady,  she  interpreter 

For  looks  or  language  wanted  none. 
If  yet  dominion  stayed  with  her  — 
So  lightly  won : 

If  yet  the  heart  she  w-ounded  sore 

Could  yearn  to  her,  and  let  her  see 
The  homage  that  was  evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If  sign  would  yield  that  it  had  bled, 
Or  rallied  from  the  faithless  blow. 
Or  sick  or  sullen  stooped  to  wed. 
She  craved  to  know. 


Now  dreamy  deep,  now  sweetly  keen, 
Her  asking  eyes  would   round  him 
shine  : 
But  guarded  lips  and  settled  mien 
Refused  the  sign. 

And  unbeguiled  and  unbetrayed. 

The  wonder  yet  within  his  breast. 
It  seemed  a  watchful  part  he  played 
Against  her  quest 

Until  with  accent  of  regret 
She  touched    upon    the    past   once 
more. 
As  if  she  dared  him  to  forget 
His  dream  of  yore. 

And  words  of  little  weight  let  fall 

The  fancy  uf  the  lower  mind ; 
How  waxing  life  must  needs  leave  all 
Its  best  behind; 

How  he  had  said  that  "  he  would  fain 

((;)ne  morning  on  the  halcyon  sea) 
That  life  would  at  a  stand  remain 
Ltemally ; 

"  And  sails  be  mirrored  in  the  deep, 

As  then  they  were,  for  evermore. 
And  happv  spirits  wake  and  sleep 
Afar  from  shore : 

"The  well-contented  heart  be  fed 
Ever  as  then,  and  all  the  world 
(It  were  not  small)  unshadowed 
When  sails  were  furled. 

"  Your  words"  — a  pause,  and  quietly 

With  touch  of  calm  self-ridicule  : 
"It  may  be  so  —  for  then,"  said  he, 
"  I  was  a  fool." 

With  that  he  took  his  book,  and  left 

An  awkward  silence  to  my  care, 
That  soon  I  filled  with  questions  deft 
And  debonair ; 

And  slid  into  an  easy  vein, 

Tlie  favorite  picture  of  the  year  ; 
The  grouse  upon  her  lord's  domain  — 
The  salmon  weir ; 


THE  HIGH  TIDE. 


49 


Till  she  could  feign  a  sudden  thought 

Upou  neglected  guests,  and  rise 
And  make  us  her  adieux,  with  nought 
In  her  dark  eyes 

Acknowledging  or  shame  or  pain  ; 

But  just  unveiling  for  our  view 
A  little  smile  of  still  disdain 
As  she  withdrew. 

Then  nearer  did  the  sunshine  creep, 
And   warmer  came   the  wafting 
breeze  ; 
The  little  babe  was  fast  asleep 
On  mother's  knees. 

Fair  was  the  face  that  o'er  it  leant, 
The  cheeks  with  beauteous  blushes 
dyed  ; 
The  downcast  lashes,  shyly  bent. 
That  failed  to  hide 

Some  tender  shame.     She  did  not  see  ; 
She  felt  his  eyes  that  would  not  stir  ; 
She  looked  ujion  her  babe,  and  he 
So  looked  at  her. 

So  grave,  so  wondering,  so  content. 

As  one  new  waked  to  conscious  life, 
Whose  sudden  joy  with  fear  is  blent, 
He  said,  "  My  wife." 

"  My  wife,  how  beautiful  you  are !  " 
Then  closer  at  her  side  reclined  ; 
"The  bold  brown  woman  from  afar 
Comes,  to  me  blind. 

"And  by  comparison  I  see 

The  majesty  of  matron  grace, 
And  learn  how  pure,  how  fair  can  be 
My  own  wife's  face  : 

"  Pure  with  all  faithful  passion,  fair 
With  tender  smiles   that  come  and 
go; 
And  comforting  as  April  air 
. After  the  snow. 

"Fool  that  I  was  J  my  sjiirit  frets 

And  marvels  at  the  humbling  truth, 
That  1  have  deigned  to  spend  regrets 
On  ii^y  bruised  youth. 


"  Its  idol  mocked  thee,  seated  nigh, 
And  shamed  nie  for  the  mad  mis- 
take ; 
I  thank  my  God  He  could  deny, 
And  she  forsake. 

"Ah,  who  am  I,  that  God  hath  saved 

Me  from  the  doom  I  did  desire, 
And  crossed  the  lot  myself  had  craved, 
To  set  me  higher? 

"  What  have  I  done  that  He  should 
bow 
From   heaven  to  choose   a  wife  for 
me  ? 
And  what  deserved,  he  should  endow 
My  home  with  thee? 

"My  wife!"      With  that  she  turned 
her  face 
To  kiss  the  hand  about  her  neck  ; 
And  I  went  down  and  sought  the  place 
Where  leaped  the  beck  — 

The  busy  beck,  that  still  would  run 

And  fall,  and  falter  its  refrain  ; 
And  pause  and  shimmer  in  the  sun, 
And  fall  again. 

It  led  me  to  the  sandy  shore. 

We  sang  together,  it  and  I  — 
"The  daylight  comes,  the  dark  is  o'er, 
The  shadows  fly." 

I  lost  it  on  the  sandy  shore, 

"  O  wife  !  "  its  latest  murmurs  fell, 
"  O  wife,  be  glad,  and  fear  no  more 
The  letter  L." 


THE     HIGH     TIDE     ON     THE 
COAST   OF   LINCOLNSHIRE. 

('S7'-) 

The    old    mayor    climbed    the  belfry 
tower, 
Tlie  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three  ; 
"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before  ; 
Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth 
he. 


5= 


THE  HIGH  TIDE. 


'Play  uppe,    play    iippe,    O    Boston 

bells! 
Ply  all  your  change^,  all  your  swells, 
Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Ender- 
by.'" 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all ; 
But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall  : 
And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  be- 
side 
The  flight  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 
By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea 
wall. 

1  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  off,  1  raised  myne 
eyes ; 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore. 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies  ; 
And  darkaganist  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha !"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song, 
"Cuslial   Cusha!"  all  along; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  flovveth, 

Floweth,  floweth. 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song  — 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha !"  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soone.be  falling  ; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come    uppe,  Whitefoot,    come   uppe, 

Lightfoot ; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe.  Jetty,  rise  and  follow. 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ; 
Come    uppe,  Whitefoot,    come   uppe, 

Lightfoot, 
Come  upjje.  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago. 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow. 

Swift  as  au  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong ; 


And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee. 
Bin  full  nf  floating  bells  (sayth  shee). 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene. 

Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 
The   steeple  towered  from   out   the 
greene ; 

And  lo !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  dovvne  that  kyndly  message  free, 
The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky. 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie. 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They  sayde,    "  And  why   should  this 
thing  be? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby ! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down  ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe. 
They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the 
towne : 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see. 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee, 
Why  ring  'The  Brides  of  Enderby'  ?" 

I  looked  wnthout,  and  lo !  my  sonne 
Came  riding  downe  with  might  and 
main : 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on. 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"Elizabeth!   Elizabeth!" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath  j 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"The  olde  seawall  (he  cried)  is  dowiie, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace. 

And  boats  ailrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  inaiket-place." 


THE  HIGH   TIDE. 


He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"  God  save  you,  mother!  "    straight  he 

saith ; 
"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 

"  Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  lier 
way,  [long ; 

With  her  two  bairns  I  marked   her 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 

Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho,  Enderby !  " 
They  rang  "The  Brides  of  Enderby!  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For,  lo  I  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest. 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud  ; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud. 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed 
Shook   all   her  trembling   bankes 
amaine ; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and 

rout  — 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave. 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  ome  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee. 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night. 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by  ; 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  liglit 

Stream  from   the  church  tower,  red 
and  high  — 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see ; 

And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  niee. 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 
From   roofe   to  roofe    who    fearless 
rowed ; 

And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed ; 


And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 
"  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death! 
O  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter 
deare  ", 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore. 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the 
grass. 

That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 
A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee  : 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (slie  saith) ; 
And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha!   Cusha !  Cuslia!"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  Iier  song, 
"Cusha!   Cusha!"  all  along 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth ;  [eth. 

From  the  meads  where  melick  giow- 
When  the  water  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver. 

Shiver,  quiver; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river. 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Lea  ve  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Come  uppe,   Whitefoot,  come  uppe, 

Lightfoot  ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe,  Lightfoot,  rise  and  fol- 
low ; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head  ; 
Come  uppe.  Jetty,  follow,  follow. 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 


AFTERNOO:^  AT  A    PARSONAGE. 


AFTERNOON   AT  A   PARSON- 
AGE. 

(the  parson's  brother,  sister,  and 
two  children.) 

Prefd.ce. 

What  wonder  man  should  fail  to  stay 
A  nursling  wafted  from  above, 

The  growth  celestial  come  astray, 
That  tender  growth  whose  name  is 
Love! 

It  is  as  if  high  winds  in  heaven 
Had  shaken  the  celestial  trees. 

And  to  this  earth  below  had  given 
Some   feathered  seeds  from  one  of 
these. 

O  perfect  love  that  'dureth  long! 

Dear  growth,   that,  shaded    by  the 
palms. 
And  breathed  on  by  the  angel's  song. 

Blooms  on  in  heaven' s  eternal  calms ! 

How  great  the  task  to  guard  thee  here, 
Where  wind  is   rough,  and  frost  is 
keen. 
And  all  the  ground  with  doubt  and  fear 
Is   chequered   birth    and  death   be- 
tween 1 

Space  is  against  thee  —  it  can  part ; 

Time  is  against  thee  —  it  can  chill ; 
Words  —  they    but    render    half    the 
heart; 
Deeds  —  they  are  poor  to  our  rich 
will. 


Merton.  Though  she  had  loved  me,  I 
had  never  bound 

Her  beauty  to  my  darkness  ;  that  had 
been 

Too  hard  for  her.  Sadder  to  look  so 
near 

Into  a  face  a'l  shadow,  than  to  stand 

Aloof,  and  then  withdraw,  and  after- 
wards 

Suffer  forgetfulness  to  comfort  her. 


I  think  so,  and  I  loved  her  ;  therefore  I 
Have  no  complaint ;  albeit  she  is  not 

mine  : 
And  yet  —  and  yet,  withdrawing  I  would 

fain 
She  would  have  pleaded  duty  —  would 

have  said 
"My    father    wills    it;''  would    have 

turned  away. 
As  lingering,  or  unwillingly  ;  for  then 
She   would  have   done  no  damage  to 

the  past ; 
Now  she  has  roughly  used  it  —  flung  it 

down 
And  brushed  its  bloom  away.     If  she 

had  said, 
"  Sir,  I  have  promised ;  therefore,  lo ! 

my  hand"  — 
Would  I  have  taken  it  ?    Ah,  no !  by  all 
Most  sacred,  no ! 

I  would  for  my  sole  share 
Have  taken  first  her  recollected  blush 
The  day  I  won  her  ;  next  her  shining 

tears  — 
The  tears  of  our  long  parting ;  and  for  all 
The  rest — her  cry,  her  bitter  heart- 
sick cr>'. 
That  day  or  night  (I  know  not  which 

it  was. 
The   days  bein^    always  night),    that 

darkest  night. 
When  being  led  to  her  I  heard  hercrv, 
"O  blind!  blind!   blind!" 

Go  with  thy  chosen  mate : 
The  fashion  of  thy  going  nearly  cured 
The  sorrow  of  it.     I  am  yet  so  weak 
That  half  my  thoughts  go  after  thee ; 

but  not 
So  weak  that  I  desire  to  have  it  so. 

Jessie,  seated  at  the  piano,  sings. 

When  the  dimpled  water  slippeth, 

Full  of  laughter,  on  its  way. 
And  her  wing  the  wagtail  dippeth, 

Running  by  the  brink  at  play  ; 
When  the  poplar  leaves  atremble 

Turn  their  edges  to  the  light. 
And  the  far-up  clouds  resemble 

Veils  of  gauze  most  clear  and  white  ; 
And  the  sunbeams  fall  and  flatter 

Woodland  moss  and  branches  brown. 
And  the  glossy  finches  chatter 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down : 


AFTERNOON  AT  A    PARSONAGE. 


53 


Though  the  heart  be  not  attending, 

Having  music  of  her  own, 
On  the  grass,  through  meadows  wend- 
ing. 

It  is  sweet  to  walk  alone. 

When  the  falling  waters  utter 

Something  mournful  on  their  way, 
And  departing  swallows  flutter, 

Taking  leave  of  bank  and  brae  ; 
When  the  chaffinch  idly  sitteth 

With  her  mate  upon  the  sheaves, 
And  the  wistful  robin  flitteth 

Over  beds  of  yellow  leaves  ; 
When  the  clouds,  like  ghosts  that  pon- 
der 

Evil  fate,  float  by  and  frown. 
And  the  listless  wind  doth  wander 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  : 
Though  the  heart  be  not  attending, 

Having  sorrows  of  her  own. 
Through  the  fields  and  fallows  wend- 
ing, 

It  is  sad  to  walk  alone. 

Merton.     Blind!  blind!  blind! 
Oh  !  sitting  in  the  dark  for  evermore, 
And  doing  nothing  —  putting  out  a  hand 
To  feel  what  lies  about  me,  and  to  say 
Not  "This  is  blue  or  red,"  but  "This 

is  cold, 
And  this  the  sun  is  shining  on,  and  this 
I  know  not  till  they  tell  its  name  to  me." 

O  that  I  might  behold  once  more,  my 

God! 
The  shiningrulers  of  the  night  and  day  ; 
Or  a  star  twinkling  ;  or  an  almond-tree. 
Pink  with  her  blossom  and  alive  with 

bees, 
Standing   against  the   azure !     O   my 

sight ! 
Lost,  and  yet  living  in  the  sunlit  cells 
Of  memory  —  that  only  lightsome  place 
Where  lingers  yet  the  dayspring  of  my 

youth : 
The  years  of  mourning  for  thy  death 

are  long. 

Be  kind,  sweet  memory !     O  desert  me 

not ! 
For  oft  thou  show'st  nie  lucent  opal 

seas. 


Fringed  with   their  cocoa-palms,   and 

dwarf  red  crags. 
Whereon  the  placid  moon  doth  "  rest 

her  chin ; " 
For  oft  by  favor  of  thy  visitings 
I  feel  the  dimness  of  an  Indian  night. 
And  lo !    the  sun  is  coming.     Red  as 

rust 
Between  the   latticed  blind  his   pres- 
ence burns, 
A  ruby  ladder  running  up  the  wall ; 
And  all  the  dust,  printed  with  pigeons' 

feet. 
Is  reddened,  and  the  crows  that  stalk 

anear 
Begin   to   trail   for   heat    their    glossy 

wings. 
And  the  red  flowers  give  back  at  once 

the  dew. 
For  night  is  gone,  and  day  is  bom  so 

fast. 
And  is  so  strong,  that,  huddled  as  in 

flight. 
The    fleeting    darkness    paleth    to    a 

shade. 
And  while  slie  calls  to  sleep  and  dreams 

"  Come  on," 
Suddenly     waked,     the     sleepers    rub 

their  eyes. 
Which  having  opened,  lo!    she  is  no 

more. 


O  misery  and  mourning !  I  have  felt  — 
Yes,    I    have   felt   like  some  deserted 

world 
That  God  had  done  with,  and  had  cast 

aside 
To  rock  and  stagger  through  the  gulfs 

of  space. 
He  never  looking  on  it  any  more  — 
Untilled,  no  use,  no  pleasure,  not  de- 
sired. 
Nor  lighted    on    by   ang'els    in    their 

flight 
From  heaven  to  happier  planets,  and 

the  race 
That  once  had  dwelt  on  it  withdrawn 

or  dead. 
Could   such   a   world  have   hope   that 

some  blest  day 
God  would  remember  her,  and  fashion 

her 
Anew  ? 


•n 


AFTERNOON  AT  A   PARSONAGE. 


Jessie.  What,    clearest  ?      Did    you 

speak  to  me  ? 
Child.  1  think  he  sjjoke  to  us. 
M.  No,  little  elves, 

You  were  so  quiet  that  I  half  forgot 
Your    neigliborhood.     What    are   you 
doing  there? 
J.  They  sit  together  ou  the  window- 
mat 
Nursing  their  dolls. 

C.  Yes,  Uncle,  our  new  dolls  — 

Our  best  dolls,  that  you  gave  us. 

y1/.  Did  you  say 

The  afternoon  was  bright  ? 

J.  Yes,  bright  indeed  ! 

The  sun  is  on  the   plane-tree,  and  it 

flames 
All  red  and  orange. 

C.  1  can  see  my  father  — 

Look !  look !  the  leaves  are  falling  on 
his  gown. 
M.  Where? 

C.  In  the  churchyard.  Uncle  — 

he  is  gone ; 
He  passed  behind  the  tower. 

M.  I  heard  a  bell : 

There  is  a  funeral,  then,  behind  the 
church. 
id  Child.  Are  the  trees  sorry  when 

their  leaves  drop  off  ? 
■ist  Child.  You  talk  such  silly  words  ; 
—  no,  not  at  all. 
There  goes  another  leaf. 

2d  Child.  I  did  not  see. 

1st  Child.  Look!   on  the  grass,  be- 
tween the  little  hills, 
Just  where  they  planted  Amy. 

y.  "  Amy  died  — 

Dear  little  Amy !  when  you  talk  of  her. 
Say,  she  is  gone  to  heaven. 

2d  Child.  They  planted  her  — 

Will  she  come  up  next  year? 

,st  Child.  No,  not  so  soon  ; 

But  some  day  God  will  call  her  to  come 

up. 
And  then  she  will.     Papa  knows  every 

thing  — 
He  said  she  would  before  he  planted 
her. 
2d  Child.   It   was  at  night  she  went 
to  heaven.     Last  night 
We  saw  a  star  before  we  went  to  bed. 
1st  Child.   Yes,  Uncle,  did  you  know  ? 
A  large  bright  star, 


And   at  her  side  she  had  some  little 

ones  — 
Some  young  ones. 

M.  Young  ones !   no,  my  little  maid, 
Those  stars  are  very  old. 

ist  Child.  What!  all  of  them? 

M.  Yes. 

isi  Child.     Older  than  our  father  ? 
M  Older,  far. 

2d  Child.     They  must   be  tired  of 
shining  there  so  long. 
Perhaps  they  wish  they  might  come 
down. 
y.  Perhaps! 

Dear  children,  talk  of  what  you  under- 
stand. 
Come,  I  must  lift  the  trailing  creepers 

up 
That  last  night's  wind  has  loosened. 

ist  Child.  May  we  help? 

Aunt,  may  we  help  to  nail  them  ? 

y.  We  shall  see. 

Go,  find  and  bring  the   hammer,  and 
some  shreds. 


[Steps   outside    the    •windotv,    lifts   a 
branch,  and  si?igs.] 

Should  I  change  my  allegiance  for  ran- 
cor 

If  fortune  changes  her  side  ? 
Or  should  I,  like  a  vessel  at  anchor, 

Turn  with  the  turn  of  the  tide  ? 
Lift !   O  lift,  thou  lowering  sky  ; 

An  thou  wilt,  thy  gloom  forego! 
An  thou  wilt  not,  lie  and  I 

Need  not  part  for  drifts  of  snow. 


J\T.  \_'within\     Lift !  no,  thou  lower- 
ing sky,  thou  wilt  not  lift — 
Thy  motto  readeth,   "  Never." 

Childreji.  Here  they  are  ! 

Here  are  the  nails  !  and  may  we  help  ? 

y.  You  shall, 

If  I  should  want  help. 

ist  Child.        Will  you  want  it,  then? 
Please  want  it  —  we  like  nailing. 

2d  Child.  Yes,  we  do. 

y.  It  seems  I  ought  to  want  it ;  hold 
the  bough, 
And  each  may  nail  in  turn. 


AFTERNOON  AT  A    PARSONAGE. 


55 


{^SingsIX 
Like  a  daisy  I  w  as,  near  him  growing : 

Must  I  move  because  fa\ors  flag, 
And  be  like  a  browii  wall-flower  blow- 
ing 

Far  out  of  reach  in  a  crag  ? 
Lift !  O  lift,  thou  lowering  sky  ; 

An  thou  canst,  thy  blue  regain  ! 
An  thou  canst  not,  he  and  I 

Need  not  part  for  drops  of  rain. 

ist  Child.      Now,   have   we   nailed 

enough  ? 
y  \trains  the  cree/ers].     Yes,  you 
may  go ; 
But  do  not  play  too  near  the  church- 
yard path. 
M.  [wiihin].     Even  misfortune  does 
not  strike  so  near 
As  my  dependence.     O,  in  youth  and 

strength 
To  sit  a  timid  coward  in  the  dark. 
And  feel  before  I  set  a  cautious  step! 
It  is  so  very  dark,  so  far  more  dark 
Tliau  any  night  that  day  comes  after  — 

night 
In  which  there  would  be  stars,  or  else 

at  least 

The  silvered  portion  of  a  sombre  cloud 

Through  which  the  moon  is  plunging. 

y.  [.entering].  Merton ! 

M.  Yes. 

y.  Dear  Merton,  did  you  know  that 

I  could  hear? 
M.  iNo :    e'en   my   solitude    is     not 
mine  now, 
And  if  I  be  alone  is  ofttimes  doubt. 
Alas !   far  more  than  eyesight  have  I 

lost ; 
For  manly  courage  drifteth  after  it  — 
E'en  as  a  splintered  spar  would  drift 

away 
From  some  dismasted  wreck.     Hear,  I 

complain  — 
Like  a  weak  ailing  woman  I  complain. 
y.  For  the  first  time. 
M.  1  cannot  bear  the  dark. 

y.  My  brother !    you   do   bear  it  — 
bear  it  well  — 
Have  borne  it  twelve  long  months,  and 

not  complained. 
Comfort  your  heart  with  music :   all  the 
air 


Is  warm  with  sunbeams  where  the  organ 
stands. 

You  like  to  feel  them  on  you.     Come 
and  play. 
M.  My  fate,  my  fate,  is  lonely ! 
y.  So  it  is  — 

I  know  it  is. 

M.  And  pity  breaks  my  heart. 

y.   Does  it,  dear  Mei ton? 

M.  Yes,  I  say  it  does. 

What !   do  you  think  I  am  so  dull  of  ear 

That  I  can  mark  no  changes  in  the  tones 

That  reach  me  ?     Once  1  liked  not  girl- 
ish pride 

And  that  coy  quiet,  chary  of  reply. 

That  held  me  distant:  now  the  sweet- 
est lips 

Open  to  entertain  me — fairest  hands 

Are  proffered  me  to  guide. 

y.  That  is  not  well? 

M.   No:  give  me  coldness,  pride,  or 
still  disdain, 

Gentle  withdrawal.    Give  me  any  thing 

But  this  —  a  fearless,  sweet,  confiding 
ease, 

Whereof  I  may  expect,  I  may  exact. 

Considerate  care,  and  have  it  —  gentle 
speech, 

And  have  it.     Give  me  any  thing  but 
this! 

For  they  who  give  it,  give  it  in  the  faith 

That  I  will  not  misdeem  them,  and  for- 
get 

My  doom  so  far  as  to  perceive  thereby 

Hope   of   a   wife.      They    make    this 
thought  too  plain ; 

They  wound  me  —  O  they  cut  me  to 
the  heart! 

When  have  I  said  to  any  one  of  them, 

"I  am  a  blind  and  desolate  man;  — 
come  here, 

I  pray  you  —  be  as  eyes  to  me  ? "  When 
said. 

Even   to   her  whose  pitying  voice  is 
sweet 

To  my  dark  ruined  heart,  as  must  be 
hands 

That  clasp  a  lifelong  captive's  through 
the  grate. 

And  who  will  ever  lend  her  delicate  aid 

To  guide  me,  dark  incumbrance  that  I 
am !  — 

When  have  J  said  to  her,  "  Comfort- 
ing voice, 


56 


SO.VGS  OF  SEP'EN. 


Belonging  to  a  face  unknown,  I  pray 
Be  my  wife's  voice  ?  " 

y.  Never,  my  brother  —  no. 

You  never  have ! 

M.  What  could  she  think  of  me 

If  I  forgot  myself  so  far  ?  or  what 
Could  she  reply? 

y.  You  ask  not  as  men  ask 

Who  care  for  an  opinion,  else,  perhaps. 
Although   I    am  not  sure — although, 

perhaps, 
I  have  no  right  to  give  one  —  I  should 

say 
She  would  reply,  "  I  will !  " 


Afterthought. 

Man  dwells  apart,  though  not  alone. 
He  walks  among  his  peers  unread  ; 

The  best  of  thoughts  which  he  hath 
knowii 
For  lack  of  listeners  are  not  said. 

Yet  dreaming  on  earth's  clustered  isles. 
He  saith,  "  They  dwell  not  lone  hke 
men," 

Forgetful  that  their  sunflecked  smiles 
Flash  far  beyond  each  other's  ken. 

He  looks  on  God's  eternal  suns 
That  sprinkle  the  celestial  blue, 

And  saith,   "  Ah !  happy  shining  ones, 
I  would  that  men  were  grouped  like 
you!" 

Yet  this  is  sure :  the  loveliest  star 
That  clustered  with  its  peers  we  see. 

Only  because  from  us  so  far 

Doth  near  its  fellows  seem  to  be. 


SONGS  OF  SEVEN. 

SEVEN   TIMES  ONE.      EXULTATION. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and 
clover. 
There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven  :    ■ 
I've  said  my  "seven  times"   over  and 
over. 
Seven  times  one  are  seven. 


I  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no 
better ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  moon !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you 

sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low; 
You  were  bright !  ah,  bright !  but  your 

light  is  failing,  — 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something 
wrong  in  heaven 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope  if  you  have  you  will  soon  be 

forgiven. 
And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow. 
You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold! 
O  brave  marsh  marybuds,  rich  and  yel- 
low. 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold! 

O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrap- 
per, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 

0  cuckoopint,  toll  me  the  purple  clap- 

per 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young 
ones  in  it ; 
I  will  not  steal  them  away ; 

1  am  old !    you  may  trust  me,  linnet, 

linnet  — 
I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 


SEVEN   TIMES   TWO.      ROMANCE. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out 
your  changes, 
How  many  soever  they  be. 
And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note 
as  he  ranges 
Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 


SOA^GS  OF  SEyEJV. 


Vet  birds'  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by 
swelling 
No  magical  sense  conveys, 
And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art 
of  telling 
The  fortune  of  future  days. 

"  Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they 
rang  cheerily, 
While  a  boy  listened  alone  ; 
Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so 
wearily 
All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bells !   I  forgive  you ;  your  good 
days  are  over. 
And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be  ; 
No  Ustening,   no  longing  shall  aught, 
aught  discover : 
You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

The  foxglove  shoots  out  of  the  green 
matted  heather, 
Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow  ; 
She  was  idle,  and  slept  till   the  sun- 
shiny weather : 
O,  children  take  long  to  grow. 

I   wish   and    I    wish   that   the    spring 
would  go  faster, 
Nor  long  summer  bide  so  late  ; 
And  I  could  grow  on  like  the  foxglove 
and  aster. 
For  some  things  are  ill  to  wait. 


I  wait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts 
shall  discover, 
While  dear  hands   are   laid   on   my 
head  ; 
"The  child  is  a  woman,  the  book  may 
close  over. 
For  all  the  lessons  are  said." 


I  wait  for  my  story  —  the  birds  cannot 
sing  it, 
Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree  ; 
The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years, 
O  bring  it ! 
Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be. 


SEVEN    TIMES   THREE.      LOVE. 

I  leaned  out  of  window,    I  smelt  tlie 
white  clover, 
Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,   I   saw 
not  the  gate  ; 
"  Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes, 
my  one  lover  — 
Hush,  nightingale,  hush  !     O,  sweet 
nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near, 
For  my  love  he  is  late ! 

"  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer 
and  nearer, 
A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in 
the  tree. 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter, 
comes  clearer : 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what 
dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-cluslers  grow. 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 


"  You  night  moths  that  hover  where 
honey  brims  over 
From  sN'camore  blossoms,    or  settle 
or  sleep ; 
You  glowworms,   shine   out,  and  the 
pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes   darkling  along 
the  rough  steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
P'or  the  time  nuis  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep  — 


"  Too  deep  for  swift  telling  ;  and  yet, 
my  one  lover, 
I've  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits 
thee  to-night." 
By  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through 
the  white  clover, 
Then   all   the    sweet   speech   I   had 
fashioned  took  flight  ; 
But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 


so^rGs  OF  seveiv. 


SEVEN    TIMES    FOUR.      MATERNITY. 

Heigliho!  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall ! 
When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock 
in  the  grasses, 
And   dance  with    the   cuckoo-buds 
slender  and  small ! 
Here's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here's 
mother's  own  lasses, 
Eager  to  gather  tliem  all. 

Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups  ! 
Mother  shall   thread   them   a  daisy 
chain  : 
Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge 
spanow. 
That   loved   her  brown   little   ones, 
loved  them  full  fain  ; 
Sing,  "  Heart,  thou  art  wide  though 
the  house  be  but  narrow  "  — 
Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 

Heigh  ho !  daisies  and  buttercups. 
Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend 
and  they  bow; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean 
waters. 
And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at 
her  prow. 
O  bonny  brown  sons,  and  O  sweet  little 
daughters. 
Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now ! 

Heigh  ho!  daisies  and  buttercups, 
Fair  vellow  daffodils,  stately  and 
tall ! 
A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and 
leisure, 
And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sor- 
row and  thrall ! 
Send  down   on   their  pleasure  smiles 
passing  its  measure, 
God  that  is  over  us  all! 


SEVEN   TIMES   FIVE.      WIDOWHOOD. 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan 

Before  I  am  well  awake  ; 
"  Let  me  bleed !     0  let  me  alone, 

Since  1  must  not  break !  " 


For  children  wake,  though  fathers  sleep 
With  a  stone  at  foot  and  at  head : 

0  sleepless  God,  for  ever  keep, 
Keep  both  living  and  dead ! 

1  lift  mine  ej'es,  and  what  to  see 

But  a  world  happy  and  fair  ! 
I  have  not  wished  it  to  mourn  with 
me  — 
Comfort  is  not  there. 

O  what  anear  but  golden  brooms. 
And  a  waste  of  reedy  rills ! 

0  what  afar  but  the  fine  glooms 
On  the  rare  blue  hills! 

1  shall  not  die,  but  live  forlore  — 
How  bitter  it  is  to  part ! 

0  to  meet  thee,  my  love,  once  moiC ! 
O  my  heart,  my  heart! 

No  more  to  hear,  no  more  to  see! 

0  that  an  echo  might  wake 

And  waft  one  note  of  thy  psalm  to  me 
Ere  my  heart-strings  break ! 

1  should  know  it  how  faint  soe'er. 
And  with  angel  voices  blent ; 

O  once  to  feel  thy  spirit  anear ; 

1  could  be  content ! 

Or  once  between  the  gates  of  gold, 
While  an  entering  angel  trod, 

But  once- — thee  sitting  to  behold 
On  the  hills  of  God ! 


SEVEN    TIMES    SIX.        GIVING    IN     MAR- 
RIAGE. 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose  : 
To  see  my  bright  ones  disappear, 

Drawii  up  like  morning  dews  — 
To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose : 
This  have  I  done  when  God  drew  near 

Among  his  own  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

And  with  thy  lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed, 

Will  let  no  longer  smart.  — 


so.vGS  OF  seven: 


To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

This  while  thou  didcl  I  smiled, 

For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said, 
"JMother,  give  me  thy  child." 

Ofond,  Ofool,  and  blind! 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears  ; 
But  when  a  man  like  grace  w'ould  find, 

My  soul  put  by  her  fears  — 
O  fond,  O  tool,  and  blind  ! 

God  guards  in  happier  spheres  ; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 

Is  hope  for  unknown  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose. 
Thy  mother's  tenderest  words  are  said. 

Thy  face  no  more  she  views  ; 
Thy  mother's  lot,  my  dear. 

She  doth  in  nought  accuse ; 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  love  —  and  then  to  lose. 


SEVEN    TIMES     SEVEN.      LONGING     FOR 
HOME. 


A  song  of  a  boat :  — 
There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow : 
Lightly  she  rocked  tolierport  remote, 
And  the  foam  was  white  m  her  wake 

like  snow. 
And  her  frail   mast   bowed  when   the 
breeze  would  blow. 
And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 


I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a 
boat 
Went  curtseying  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till  a  dancing 
mote 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 
And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear  loved 
home  ; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about 
tlie  boat 
And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 


I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat. 

For  it  is  but  short :  — 
]\Iy  boat,  you  shall  find  none  fairer 
afloat. 
In  river  or  port. 
Long  I   looked  out   for   the  lad  she 
bore. 
On  the  open  desolate  sea. 
And  I  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly 
shore. 
For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 

Ah  me ! 


A  song  of  a  nest :  — 
There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow: 
Down   in    the  mosses   and  knot-giass 

pressed. 
Soft  and  warm,  and  full  to  the  brim  — 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 
With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 


I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest. 

For  it  is  not  long :  — 
You  sliall   never  light,    in   a  summer 
quest 

The  bushes  among  — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitler, 

That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 


I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah,  happy,  liappy  1 ! 
Right  dearly  1  loved  ihem :  but  when 
they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly  — 
O,  one  after  one  they  flew  away 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue. 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day, 

And  —  I  wish  1  was  going  too. 


I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to 
see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 


6o 


A    COTTAGE  IX  A  CHIXE. 


Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor 
yet, 
Though  my  good  man  has  sailed? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest 
was  set, 
Now  all  its  hope  hath  failed? 
Nay,   but   the  port  where   my  sailor 
went, 
And  the  land  where  my  nestlings 
be: 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts 
are  sent. 
The  only  home  for  me  — 

Ah  me! 


A  COTTAGE   IN  A  CHINE. 

We  reached  the  place  by  night, 

And  heard  the  waves  breaking : 
They  came  to  meet  us  with   candles 
alight 
To  show  the  path  we  were  taking. 
A    myrtle,    trained  on   the   gate,   was 
white 
Witli  tufted  flowers  down  shaking. 

With  head  beneath  her  wing, 
A  little  WTen  was  sleeping  — 

So  near,  I  liad  found  it  an  easy  thing 
To  steal  her  for  my  keeping 

From  the  myrtle  bough  that  with  easy 
swing 
Across  the  path  was  sweeping. 

Down  rocky  steps  rough-hewed, 
Where  cup-mosses  flowered. 

And  under  the  trees,  all  twisted  and 
rude. 
Wherewith  the  dell  was  dowered. 

They  led  us,  where  deep  in  its  solitude 
Lay  the  cottage,  leaf-embowered. 

The  thatch  was  all  bespread 
With  climbing  passion  flowers  ; 

They  v\ere  wet,  and  glistened  with  rain- 
drops, shed 
That  day  in  genial  showers. 

"Was  never  a  sweeter  nest,"  we  said, 
"Than  this  little  nest  of  ours." 


We  laid  us  down  to  sleep: 

But  as  for  me  —  waking, 
I    marked   the   plunge   of  tlie  muffled 
deep 

On  its  sandy  reaches  breaking ; 
For  heart-joyance  dotli  sometimes  keep 

From  slumber,  like  heart-aching. 

And  I  was  glad  that  night, 

With  no  reason  ready, 
To  give  my  own  heart  for  its  deep  de- 
light, 
That  flowed  like  some  tidal  eddy. 
Or  shone  like  a  star  that  was  rising 
bright 
With  comforting  radiance  steady. 

But  on  a  sudden  —  hark ! 

Music  struck  asunder 
Those  meshes  of  bliss,  and  I  wept  in 
the  dark. 
So  sweet  was  the  unseen  wonder ; 
So  swiftly  it  touched,  as  if  struck  at  a 
mark, 
The  trouble  that  joy  kept  under. 

I  rose  —  the  moon  outshone : 

I  saw  the  sea  heaving, 
And  a  little  vessel  sailing  alone, 

Tlie  small  crisp  wave.et  cleaving; 
'T  was  she  as  she  sailed  to  her  port  un- 
known — 

Was  that  track  of  sweetness  leaving. 


We  know  they  music  made 
In  heaven,  ere  man's  creation; 

But  when  God  threw  it  down   to   us 
that  strayed, 
It  dropt  with  lamentation. 

And  ever  since  doth  its  sweetness  shade 
With  sighs  for  its  first  station. 


Its  joy  suggests  regret  — 

Its  most  for  more  is  yearning ; 
And  it  brings  to  the  soul  that  its  voice 
liath  met 
No  rest  that  cadence  learning, 
But  a  conscious  part  in  the  sighs  that 
fret 
Its  nature  for  returning. 


LIGHT  AND   SHADE. 


6: 


O  Eve,  sweet  Eve !  niethought 
When  sometimes  comfort  winning, 

As  she   watched    the    first    children's 
tender  sport. 
Sole  joy  born  since  her  sinning, 

If  a  bird  anear  them  sang,  it  brought 
The  pang  as  at  beginning. 


While  swam  the  unshed  tear, 
Her  prattlers,  little  heeding. 

Would  murmur,  "This  bird,  with  its 
carol  clear. 
When  the  red  clay  was  kneaden, 

And  God  made  Adam  our  father  dear, 
Sang  to  him  thus  in  Eden." 


The  moon  went  in  —  the  sky 

And  earth  and  sea  hiding  ; 
I  laid  me  down,  with  the  yearning  sigh 

Of  that  strain  in  my  heart  abiding  ; 
I  slept,  and  the  barque  that  had  sailed 
so  nigh 

In  my  dream  was  ever  gliding. 


I  slept,  but  waked  amazed, 

With  sudden  noise  frighted, 
And  voices  without,   and  a  flash  that 
dazed 
My  eyes  from  candles  lighted. 
"Ah!  surely,"  niethought,   "by  these 
shouts  upraised, 
Some  travellers  are  benighted." 


A  voice  was  at  my  side  — 

"  Waken,  madam,  waken  ! 
The  long  prayed-for  ship  at  her  anchor 
doth  ride. 
Let  the  child  from  its  rest  be  taken, 
For  the  captain  doth   weary  for  babe 
and  for  bride  — 
Waken,  madam,  waken ! 

"The  home  you  left  but  late, 
He  speeds  to  it  light-hearted  ; 

By  the  wires  he  sent  this  news,  and 
straight 
To  you  with  it  they  started." 

O  joy  for  a  yearning  heart  too  great, 
O  union  for  the  parted! 


We  rose  up  in  the  night. 

The  morning  star  was  shining; 
We  carried  the   child  in   its  slumber 
light 

Out  by  the  myrtles  twining : 
Orion  over  the  sea  hung  bright, 

And  glorious  in  declining. 

Mother,  to  meet  her  son. 

Smiled  first,  then  wept  the  rather ; 
And  wife,  to  bind  up  those  links  un- 
done. 

And  cherished  words  to  gather. 
And  to  show  the  face  of  her  little  one, 

That  had  never  seen  its  father. 

That  cottage  in  a  chine, 

We  were  not  to  behold  it ; 
But  there  may  the  purest  of  sunbeams 
shine. 
May  freshest  flowers  enfold  it, 
For  sake  of  the  news  which  our  hearts 
must  twine 
With  the  bower  where  we  were  told  it ! 

Now  oft,  left  alone  again, 

Sit  mother  and  sit  daughter. 
And   bless  the  good   ship   that   sailed 
over  the  main, 
And  the  favoring  winds  that  brought 
her ; 
While  still  some  new  beauty  they  fable 

and  feign 
For  the  cottage  by  the  water. 


PERSEPHONE. 

Written  for  The  Portfolio  Sooety, 
Januar>',  1862. 

Subject  giz'eti  —  "  Light  and  Sfiade." 

She  stepped  upon  .Sicilian  grass, 
Dcineter's  daughter  fresh  and  fair, 

A  child  of  light,  a  radiant  lass. 
And  gamesome  as  the  morning  air. 

The  daffodils  were  fair  to  see, 

They  nodded  lightly  on  the  lea, 

Persephone  —  Persephone ! 


62 


LIGHT  AND   SHADE. 


Ln !  one  she  rnarkecl  of  rarer  growth 

Than  orchis  or  anemone  ; 
For  it  the  mai.len  left  them  both, 

And  parted  from  her  company. 
Drawn  nigh  she  deemed  it  fairer  still, 
And  stooped  to  gather  by  the  rill 
The  daffodil,  the  daffodil. 

What  ailed  the  meadow  that  it  shook? 

What  ailed  the  air  of  Sicily? 
She  wondered  by  the  brattling  brook, 

And  trembled  with  the  trembling  lea. 
"  The    coal-black    horses    rise  —  they 

rise : 
O  mother,  mother!  "  low  she  cries  — 
Persephone  —  Persephone ! 

"O    light,    light,   light!"    she    cries, 
"  farewell ; 

The  coal-black  horses  wait  for  me. 
O  shade  of  shades,  where  I  must  dwell, 

Demeter,  mother,  far  from  thee ! 
Ah,  fated  doom  that  I  fulfil ! 
Ah,  fateful  flower  beside  the  rill ! 
The  daffodil,  the  daffodil!  " 

What  ails  her  that  she  comes  not  home  ? 

Demeter  seeks  her  far  and  wide, 
And    gloomy-browed     doth     ceaseless 
roam 
From  many  a  mom  till  eventide. 
"  My  life,  immortal  though  it  be, 
Is  nought,"   she   cries,    "for  want  of 

thee, 
Persephone  —  Persephone ! 

"  Meadows  of  Enna,  let  the  rain 
No  Umger  drop  to  feed  your  rills, 

Nor  dew  refresh  the  fields  again, 
With  a  1  their  nodding  daffodils! 

Fade,  fade  and  droop,  O  lilied  lea. 

Where  thou,  dear  heart,  wert  reft  from 
me  — 

Persephone  —  Persephone !  " 


She  reigns  upon  her  dusky  throne, 

'  Mid  shades  of  heroes  dread  to  see  ; 
Among  the  dead  she  breathes  alone, 

Persephone  —  Persephone ! 
Or  seated  on  the  Elysian  hill 
She  dreams  of  earthly  daylight  still. 
And  murmurs  of  the  daffodil. 


A  voice  in  Hades  soundeth  clear, 

The  shadows  mourn  and  flit  below; 
It  cries — ^  •'  Thou  Lord  of  Hades,  hear, 

And  let  Demeter' s  daughter  go. 
The  tender  corn  upon  the  lea 
Droops  in  her  goddess  gloom  when  she 
Cries  for  her  lost  Persephone. 

"  Erom  land  to  land  she  raging  flies, 
The  green  fruit  falleth  in  her  wake. 

And  harvest  fields  beneith  her  eyes 
To  earth  the  grain  unripened  shake. 

Arise,  and  set  the  maiden  free  : 

Why  should  the  world  such  sorrow  dree 

By  reason  of  Persephone  ?" 

He  takes  the  cleft  pomegranate  seeds : 
■'  Love,   eat  with  me  this  parting 

day  ;" 
Then  bids  them  fetch  the  coal-black 

steeds  — 
"  Demeter' s   daughter,  wouldst 

away?" 
The  gates  of  Hades  set  her  free ; 
"  She  will  return  full  soon,"  sailh  he  — 
"  My  wife,  my  wife  Persephone." 

Low   laughs    the    dark    king    on    his 
throne  — 
"  I  gave  her  of  pomegranate  seeds." 
Demeter's  daughter  stands  alone 
Upon  the  fair  Eleusian  meads. 
Her  mother  meets  her.     "  Hail,"  saith 

she : 
"  And  doth  our  daylight  dazzle  thee, 
My  love,  my  child  Persephone? 

"  What  moved  thee,  daughter,  to  for- 
sake 
Thy  fellow-maids  that  fatal  morn. 
And  give  thy  dark  lord  power  to  take 
Thee  living  to  his  realm  forlorn  ?" 
Her  lips  reply  without  her  will. 
As   one   addressed  who   slumbereth 

still  — 
"  The  daffodil,  the  daffodil!  " 

Her  eyelids  droop  with  light  oppressed, 
And.  sunny  wafts  that  round  hjr  stir. 

Her  cheek  upon  her  mother's  breast  — 
Demeter's  kisses  comfort  her. 

Calm  Queen  of  Hades,  art  thou  she 

Who  stepped  so  lightly  on  the  lea^ 

Persephone,  Persephone  ? 


A    SEA    SONG.  —  BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON. 


When,  in  her  destined  course,  the  moon 
Meets  the  deej)  shadow  of  this  world, 
And  laboring  on  dotli  seem  to  swoon 
Througli    awful  wastes    of  dimness 
whirled  — 
Emerged  at  length,  no  trace  hath  slie 
Of  that  dark  hour  of  destiny, 
Still  silvery  sweet  —  Persephone. 

The  greater  world  may  near  the  less. 
And  draw  it  through  her  weltering 
shade, 
But  not  one  biding  trace  impress 

Of  all  the  darkness  that  she  made  ; 
The  greater  soul  that  draweth  thee 
Hath  left  his  shadow  plain  to  see 
On  thy  fair  face,  Persephone ! 

Demeter  sighs,  but  sure  'tis  well 
The  wife  should  love  her  destiny : 

They  part,  and  yet,  as  legends  tell. 
She  mourns  her  lost  Persephone  ; 

While  chant  the  maids  of  Enna  still  — 

"  ( )  fateful  flower  beside  the  rill  — 

The  daffodil,  the  daffodil!  " 


A  SEA  SONG. 

Old  Albton  sat  on  a  crag  of  late. 
And  sung  out — "Ahoy!  ahoy! 
Long  life  to  the  captain,  good  luck  to 
the  mate. 
And  this  to  my  sailor  boy ! 
Come  over,  come  home. 
Through  the  salt  sea  foam. 
My  sailor,  my  sailor  boy ! 

"  Here's  a  crown  to  be  given  away,  I 
ween, 
A  crown  for  my  sailor's  head. 
And  all  for  the  worth  of  a  widowed 
queen, 
And  the  love  of  the  noble  dead, 
And  the  fear  and  fame 
Of  the  island's  name 
Where  my  boy  was  bom  and  bred. 

"Content   thee,    content    thee,   let    it 

alcmc, 
Thou  marked  for  a  choice  so  rare  ; 
Though  treaties  be  treaties,  never  a 

throne 


■    Was  proffered  for  cause  as  fair. 
Yet  come  to  me  home. 
Through  the  salt  sea  foam. 
For  the  Greek  must  ask  elsewhere. 

"  'Tis  pity,  my  sailor,  but  who  can  tell  ? 

Many  lands  they  look  to  me  ; 
One  of  these  might  be  wanting  a  Prince 
as  we!!. 
But  that's  as  hereafter  may  be." 
She  raised  her  white  head 
And  laughed  ;  and  she  said, 
"That's  as  hereafter  may  be." 


BROTHERS,  AND  A   SERMON. 

It  was  a  village  built  in  a  green  rent, 
Between  two  cliffs  tliat  skirt  the  dan- 
gerous bay. 

*  A  reef  of  level  rock  runs  out  to  sea, 
And  you  may  lie  on  it  and  look  sheer 

down. 
Just  where  the  "  Grace  of  Sunderland" 

was  lost. 
And  see  the  elastic  banners  of  the  dulse 
Rock  softly,  and  the   orange  star-fish 

creep 
Across  the   laver,    and    the    mackerel 

shoot 
Over  and  under  it,  like  silver  boats 
Turning  at  will  and  plying  underwater. 

There  on  that  reef  we  lay  upon  our 
breasts,  [lads. 

My  brother  and  I,  and  half  the  village 

For  an  old  fisherman  had  called  to  us 

With  "  Sirs,  the  syle  be  come."  "And 
what  are  they  ?" 

My  brother  said.  "  Good  lack!  "  the 
old  man  cried. 

And  shook  liis  head;  "to  think  you 
gentlefolk 

Should  ask  what  syle  be  !  Look  you; 
I  can't  say 

What  syle  be  called  in  your  fine  dic- 
tionaries. 

Nor  wliat  name  God  Almighty  calls 
them  by 

When  their  food's  ready  and  He  sends 
them  boutli  ; 


64 


BROTHERS,  AND   A    SERMON: 


But  our  folk  call  them  syle,  and  nought 

but  syle, 
And  when   they're   grown,   why  then 

we  call  them  herring. 
I  tell  you.  Sir,  the  water  is  as  full 
Of  them  as  pastures  be  of  blades  of 

glass  ; 
You'll   draw  a  score  out  in  a  landing 

net, 
And  none  of  them  be  longer  than  a  pin. 

"  Syle!  ay,  indeed,  we  should  be  badly 

off, 
I  reckon,  and  so  would  God  Almighty's 

gulls," 
He  grumbled  on  in  his  quaint  piety, 
"  And  all  his  other  birds,  if  He  should 

say 
I  will  not  drive  my  syle  into  the  south  ; 
Tlie  fisher  folk  may  do  without  my  syle. 
And  do  without  the  shoals  of  fish  it 

draws 
To  follow  and  feed  on  it." 

This  said,  we  made 
Our  peace  with  him  by  means  of  two 

small  coins. 
And  down  we  ran  and  lay  upon  the  reef, 
And  saw  the  swimming  infants,  emer- 
ald green, 
In  separate  shoals,  the  scarcely  turning 

ebb 
Bringing  them  in  ;  while  sleek,  and  not 

intent 
On  chase,  but  taking  that  which  came 

to  hand. 
The  full-fed  mackerel  and  the  gurnet 

swam 
Betsveen  ;  and  settling  on  the  polished 

sea, 
A  thousand  snow-white  gulls  sat  lov- 
ingly 
In  social  rmgs,  and  twittered  while  they 

fed. 
The  village  dogs  and  ours,  elate  and 

brave, 
Lay  looking  over,  barking  at  the  fish  ; 
Fast,  fast  the  silver  creatures  took  the 

bait. 
And  when  they  heaved  and  floundered 

on  the  rock. 
In  beauteous  misery,  a  sudden  pat 
Some  shaggj-  pup  would    deal,   then 

back  away, 


At  distance  eye  them  with  sagacious 
doubt. 

And  shrink  half  frighted  from  the  slip- 
pery things. 

And  so  we  lay  from  ebb-tide,  till  the  flow 
Rose  high  enough  to  drive  us  from  the 

reef ; 
The  fisher  lads  went  home  across  the 

sand ; 
We  climbed  the  cliff,  and  sat  an  hour 

or  more. 
Talking  and  looking  down.     It  was  not 

talk 
Of  much  significance,  except  for  this  — 
That  we  had  more  in  common  than  of 

old. 
For  both  were  tired,  I  with  overwork. 
He  with  inaction  ;  I  was  glad  at  heart 
To  rest,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  an  ear 
That  he  could  grumble  to,  and  half  in 

jest 
Rail  at  entails,  deplore  the  fate  of  heirs, 
And  the  misfortune  of  a  good  estate  — 
Misfortune  that  was  sure  to  pull  him 

down. 
Make  him  a   dreamy,  selfish,   useless 

man : 
Indeed  he  felt  himself  deteriorate 
Already.     Thereupon    he    sent    down 

showers 
Of  clattering  stones,  to  emphasize  his 

words. 
And  leap  the  c'ifFs  and  tumble  noisily 
Into  the  seething  wave.     And  as  for 

me, 
I  railed  at  him  and  at  ingratitude, 
While  rifling  of  the  basket  he  had  slung 
Across  liis  shoulders  ;  then  with  right 

good  will 
We  fell  to  work,  and  feasted  like  the 

gods, 
Like  laborers,  or  like  eager  workhouse 

folk 
At  Yuletide  dinner  ;  or,  to  say  the  whole 
At  once,    like   tired,    hungry,    healthy 

j'outh, 
Until  the  meal  being  o'er,  the  tilted 

flask 
Drained  of  its  latest  drop,  the  meat  and 

bread 
And  ruddy  cherries  eaten,  and  the  dogs 
Mumbling  the  boues,  this  elder  brother 

of  mine  — 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON: 


65 


This  man,  that  never  felt  an  ache  or  pain 
In  his  broad,  well-knit  frame,  and  never 

knew 
The  trouble  of  an  unforgiven  grudge. 
The  sting  of  a  regretted  meanness,  nor 
The  desperate  struggle   of   the  unen- 
dowed 
For  place  and  for  possession  —  he  began 
To  sing   a  rhyme  that  he  himself  had 

wrought ; 
Sending  it  out  with  cogitative  pause. 
As  if  the  scene  where  he  had  shaped  it 

first 
Had  rolled  it  back  on  him,  and  meet- 
ing it 
Thus  unaware,  he  was  of  doubtful  nimd 
Whether  his  dignity  it  well  beseemed 
To  sing  of  pretty  maiden : 

Goldilocks  sat  on  the  grass, 

Tying  up  of  posies  rare  ; 
Hardly  could  a  sunbeam  pass 

Through  the  cloud  that  was  her  hair. 
Purple  orchis  lasteth  long. 

Primrose  flowers  are  pale  and  clear  ; 
O  the  maiden  sang  a  song 

It  would  do  you  good  to  hear  ! 

Sad  before  her  leaned  the  boy, 

"  Goldilocks  that  I  love  well, 
Happy  creature  fair  and  coy. 

Think  o'  me,  Sweet  Amabel." 
Goldilocks  she  shook  apart. 

Looked  with  doubtful,  doubtful  eyes  ; 
Like  a  blossom  on  her  heart 

Opened  out  her  first  surprise. 

As  a  gloriole  sign  o'  grace. 

Goldilocks,  ah,  fall  and  flow 
On  the  blooming,  childlike  face, 

Dimple,  dimple,  come  and  go. 
Give  her  time  ;  on  grass  and  sky 

Let  her  gaze  if  she  be  fain  : 
As  they  looked  ere  he  drew  nigh, 

They  will  never  look  again. 

Ah!  the  playtime  she  has  known, 

While  her  goldilocks  grew  long, 
Is  it  like  a  nestling  flown. 

Childhood  over  like  a  song? 
Yes,  the  boy  may  clear  his  brow, 

Though  she  thinks  to  say  him  nay, 
When  she  sighs,   "  I  cannot  now  — 

Come  again  some  other  day." 


"  Hold  there !  "  he   cried,   half  angry 

with  himself; 
"  That    ending     goes    amiss : "     then 

turned  again 
To  the  old  argument  that  we  had  held  — 
"Now  look  you!"    said  my   brother, 

"  you  may  talk 
Till,  weary  of  the  talk,  I  answer  '  Ay, 
There's  reason  in  your  words ;  '   and 

you  may  talk 
Til!  I  go  on  to  say,  '  This  should  be  so  ; ' 
And  you  may  talk  till  I  shall  further  own 
'  It  is  so  ;  yes,  I  am  a  lucky  dog  I  ' 
Yet  not  the  less  shall  I  next  morning 

wake. 
And  with  a  natural  and  fervent  sigh, 
Such  as  you  never  heaved,  I  shall  ex- 
claim 
'  What  an  unlucky  dog  I  am !  '  "     And 

here 
'He  broke  into  a  laugh.     "  But  as  for 

you  — 
You!  on  all  hands  you  have  the  best 

of  me  ; 
Men  have  not  robbed  vou  of  your  birth- 
right —  work. 
Nor  ravaged  in  old  days  a  peaceful  field. 
Nor  wedded  heiresses  against  their  will. 
Nor  sinned,  nor  slaved,   nor  stooped, 

nor  overreached, 
That  you   might  dione  a  useless  life 

away 
'Mid  half  a  score  of  bleak  and  barren 

farms 
And  half  a  dozen  bogs." 

"  O  rare !  "  I  cried ; 
"  His  wrongs  go  nigh  to   make  him 

eloquent : 
Now  we  behold  how  far  bad  actions 

reach ! 
Because     five    hundred    years    ago    a 

Knight 
Drove  geese   and  beeves  out   from  a 

franklin's  yard ; 
Because   three    hundred    years   ago  a 

squire  — 
Against  her  will,  and  fiir  her  fair  estate — 
Married  a  very  ugly,  red-haired  maid, 
The  blest  inheritor  of  all  their  pelf. 
While  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  same, 
Sighs  on  his  own  confession  every  day- 
He  cracks  no  egg  without  a  moral  sigh. 
Nor  eats  of  beef  but  thinking  on  that 

wrong ; 


66 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON. 


Then,  yet  the  more  to  be  revenged  on 

them, 
And  shame  their  ancient  pride,  if  they 

sliould  know, 
Works  hard  as  any  horse  for  his  degree, 
And  takes  to  writmg  verses." 

"  Ay,"  he  said, 
Half  laughing  at  himself.     "  Yet  )'ou 

and  I, 
But  for  those  tresses  which  enrich  us 

yet 
With  somewhat  of  the  hue  that  partial 

fame 
Calls  auburn  when  it  shines  on  heads 

of  heirs. 
But  when  it   flames  round    brows  of 

younger  sons, 
Just  red  —  mere  red;  why,  but  for  this, 

I  say, 
And  but  for  selfish  getting  of  the  land, 
And  beggarly  entailing  it,  we  two. 
To-day   well   fed,    well   grown,   well 

dressed,  well  read, 
We  might  have  been  two  homy-handed 

boors  — - 
Lean,    cliunsy,   ignorant,    and    ragged 

boors  — 
Planning  for  moonlight  nights  a  poach- 
ing scheme. 
Or  .soiling  our  dull  souls  and  consciences 
With  plans  for  pilfering  a  cottage  roost. 


"What,  chorus!    are  you  dumb?  you 

should  have  cried, 
'  So  good  comes  out  of  evil  ; '  "    and 

^  with  that. 
As  if  all  pauses  it  was  natural 
To  seize  for  songs,  his  voice  broke  out 

again; 

Coo,  dove,  to  thy  married  mate  — 
She  has  two  warm  eggs  in  her  nest : 

Tell  her  the  liours  are  few  to  wait 
Ere  life  shall  dawn  on  their  rest ; 

And  thy  young  shall  peck  at  the  shells, 
elate 
With  a  dream  of  her  brooding  breast. 

Coo,  dove,  for  she  counts  the  hours, 

H  er  f air  wings  ache  for  thght : 
By  day  the  apple  has  grown  in  the 
flowers, 


And  the  moon  has  grown  by  night, 
KvA  the  white  drift  settled  from  haw- 
tliorn  bowers. 
Yet  they  will  not  seek  the  light. 

Coo,  dove  ;  but  what  of  the  sky  ? 

And  what  if  the  storm-wind  swell. 
And  the  reeling  branch  come  down  from 
on  liigh 
To  the  grass  where  daisies  dwell. 
And  the  brood  beloved  should  with  them 
lie 
Or  ever  they  break  the  shell  ? 

Coo,  dove  ;  and  yet  black  clouds  lower. 
Like  fate,  on  the  far-off  sea : 

Thunder  and  wind  they  bear  to   thy 
bov.er, 
As  on  wings  of  destiny. 

Ah,  what  if  they  break  m  an  evil  hour, 
As  they  broke  over  mine  and  me  .■" 

What  next?  —  we  started  like  to  girls, 
for  lo! 

The  creaking  voice,  more  harsh  than 
rusty  crane, 

Of  one  who  stooped  behind  us,  cried 
aloud, 

"  Good  lack  !  how  sweet  the  gentleman 
does  sing  — 

So  loud  and  sweet,  'tis  like  to  split  his 
throat. 

Why,  Mike's  a  child  to  him,  a  two- 
years  child  — 

A  Chrisom  child." 

"Who's  Mike?"  my  brother  growled 
A   little    roughly.     Quoth    the   fisher- 
man — 
"  Mike,  Sir?  he's  just  a  fisher  lad,  no 

more  ; 
But  he  can  sing,  when  he  takes  on  to 

sing. 
So  loud  there's  not  a  sparrow  in  the  spire 
But  needs  must  hear.     Sir,  if  I  might 

make  bold, 
I'd  ask  what  song  that  was  you  sung. 

My  mate. 
As  we  were  shoving  off  the  mackerel 

boats. 
Said  he,   '  I'll  wager  that's  the  sort  o' 

song 
They  kept  their  hearts  up  ^vith  in  the 

Crimea.' " 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON. 


67 


"  There,    fisherman,"    quoth    I,    "  he 

showed  his  wit, 
Your  mate  ;   he  marked  the  sound  of 

savage  war  — 
Gunpowder,     groans,     hot-shot,     and 

bursting  shells. 
And  '  murderous  messages,'  delivered 

by 
Spent   balls  that  break  the   heads   of 

dreaming  men." 

"  Ay,  ay,  Sir ! "  quoth  the  fisherman. 
"  Have  done  !  " 

My  brother.  And  I  — "The  gift  be- 
longs to  fuw 

Of  sending  farther  than  the  words  can 
reach 

Their  spirit  and  expression ; "  still 
"  Have  done!  " 

He  cried  ;  and  then  "  I  rolled  the  rub- 
bish out 

More  loudly  than  the  meaning  war- 
lanted. 

To  air  my  lungs  —  I  thought  not  on 
the  words." 

Then  said  the  fisherman,  who  missed 

the  point, 
"  So  Mike  rolls  out  the  psalm ;  you'll 

hear  him,  Sir, 
Please  God  you  live  till  Sunday." 

"  Even  so : 
And  you,  too,  fisherman ;  for  here,  they 

say. 
You  all  are  church-goers." 

"  Surely,  Sir,"  quoth  he. 
Took  off  his  hat,  and  stroked  his  old 

white  head 
And  wrinkled  face  ;  then  sitting  by  us 

said. 
As  one  that  utters  with  a  quiet  mind 
Unchallenged  truth — '"Tis  lucky  for 

the  boats." 

The    boats!    'tis  lucky  for  the  boats! 

Our  eyes 
Were  drawn  to  him  as  either  fain  would 

say, 
What!  do  they  send  the  psalm  up  in 

the  spire 
And    pray  because  'tis  lucky  for  the 

boats  ? 


But  he,  the  brown  old  man,  the  wrinkled 

man. 
That  all  his  life  had  been  a  church- 

.  .Soer, 
Familiar  with  celestial  cadences. 
Informed  of  all  he  could  receive,  and 

sure 
Of  all  he  understood  —  he  sat  conter.t. 
And  we  kept  silence.     lu  his  reverend 

face 
There  was  a  simpleness  we  could  not 

sound ; 
Much  truth  had  passed  him  overhead; 

some  error 
He  had  trod  under  foot ;  —  God  comfort 

him ! 
He  could  not  learn  of  us,  for  we  were 

young 
And  he  w-as  old,  and  so  we  gave  it  up  ; 
And  the  sun  went  into  the  west,  and 

down 
Upon  the  water    stooped    an    orange 

cloud. 
And  the  pale  milky  reaches  flushed,  as 

glad 
To  wear  its  colors  ;  and  the  sultry  air 
Went  out  to  sea,  and  puffed  the  sails 

of  ships 
With  thymy  wafts,  the  breath  of  trod- 
den grass : 
It  took  moreover  music,  for  across 
The  heather  belt  and  over  pasture  land 
Came  the  sweet  monotone  of  one  slow 

be;l, 
And  parted  time  into  divisions  rare, 
Whereof  each  morsel  brought  its  own 

delight. 

"They  ring  for  service,"    quoth   the 

fisherman  ; 
"  Our  parson  preaches  in  the  church 

to-night." 

"  And  do  the  people  go  ? "  my  brother 
asked. 

"Ay,  Sir;  they  count  it  mean  to  stay 

away, 
He  takes  it  so  to  heart.     He's  a  rare 

man. 
Our  parson  ;  half  a  head  above  us  all." 

"  That's    a    great  gift,  and  notable,'' 
said  I. 


63 


BROTHERS,  AND  A    SERMON: 


"  Ay,  Sir ;  and  when  h'e  was  a  younger 

man 
He  went  out  in  the  life-boat  ver>'  oft, 
Before  the  'Grace  of  Sunderland'  was 

^\Tecked. 
He's  never  been  his   own  man   since 

that  hour ; 
For  there  were  thirt)'  men  aboard  of  her, 
Anigh  as  close  as  you  are  now  to  me, 
And  ne'er  a  one  was  saved. 

They're  lying  now. 
With  two  small  children,  in  a  row :  the 

church 
And  yard  are  full  of  seamen's  graves, 

and  few 
Have  any  names. 

She  bumped  upon  the  reef  ; 
Our  parson,  my  young  son,  and  several 

more 
Were  lashed  together  with  a  two-inch 

rope. 
And  crept  along  to  her;  their  mates 

ashore 
Ready  to  haul  them  in.     The  gale  was 

The  sea  was  all  a  boiling,  seething  froth. 
And  God  Almighty's  guns  w-ere  going 

off, 
And  the  land  trembled. 

"  When  she  took  the  ground. 
She  went  to  pieces  like  a  lock  of  hay 
Tossed  from  a  pitchfork.     Ere  it  came 

to  that. 
The  captain  reeled  on  deck  with  two 

small  things, 
One  in  each  arm  —  his  little   lad   and 

lass. 
Their  hair  was  long,  and  blew  before 

his  face, 
Or  else  we  thought  he  had  been  saved ; 

he  fell. 
But  held  them  fast.     The  crew,  poor 

luckless  souls! 
The   breakers   licked   them    off;    and 

some  were  crushed. 
Some   swallowed   in   the    yeast,   some 

flung  up  dead. 
The  dear  breath  beaten  out  of  them : 

not  one 
Jumped  from  the  WTeck  upon  the  reef 

to  catch 
The  hands  that  strained  to  reach,  but 

tumbled  back 


With  eyes  wide  open.    But  the  captain 

lay 
And  clung  —  the  only  man  alive.    They 

prayed  — 
'For  God's  sake,   captain,   throw  the 

children  herel ' 
'  Throw  them  I '  our  parson  cried ;  and 

then  she  struck : 
And  he  threw  one.  a  pretty  two-years 

child ; 
But  the  gale  dashed  him  on  the  slip- 
pery verge. 
And  down  he   went.     They  say   they 

heard  him  cry. 

"Then  he  rose  up  and  took  the  other 
one. 

And  all  our  men  reached  out  their  hun- 
gry' arms, 

And  cried  out,  'Throw  her!'  and  he 
did: 

He  threw  her  right  against  the  parson's 
breast, 

And  all  at  once  a  sea  broke  over  them, 

And  they  that  saw  it  from  the  shore 
have  said 

It  struck  the  wreck,  and  piecemeal  scat- 
tered it. 

Just  as  a  woman  might  the  lump  of 
salt 

That  'twixt  her  hands  into  the  knead- 
ing-pan 

She  breaks  and  cnimbles  on  her  rising 
bread. 

"  We  hauled  our  men  in:  two  of  them 

were  dead  — 
The  sea  had  beaten  them,  their  heads 

himg  down ; 
Our  parson's  anus  were  empty,  for  the 

wave 
Had  torn  away  the  pretty,  pretty  lamb  ; 
We   often  see   him  stand  beside   her 

grave: 
But  'twas  no  fault  of  his,  no  fault  of  his. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Sirs ;  I  prate  and 

prate. 
And  never  have  I  said  what  brought 

me  here. 
Sirs,   if  you   want   a  boat    to-morrow 

morn, 
I'm  bold  to  say  there's  ne'er  a  boat  like 

mine." 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON. 


69 


"Ay,  that  was  what  we  wanted,"  we 

replied ; 
"A  boat,  his  boat ; "  and  off  he  went, 

well  pleased. 

We,  too,  rose  up  (the  crimson  in  the 
sky 

Flushing  our  faces),  and  went  saunter- 
ing on. 

And  thought  to  reach  our  lodging,  by 
the  cliff. 

And  up  and  down  among  the  heather 
beds. 

And  up  and  down  between  the  sheaves, 
we  sped. 

Doubling  and  winding ;  for  a  long  ra- 
vine 

Ran  up  into  the  land  and  cut  us  off. 

Pushing  out  slippery  ledges  for  the 
birds, 

And  rent  with  many  a  crevice,  where 
the  wind 

Had  laid  up  drifts  of  empty  egg-shells, 
swept 

From  the  bare  berths  of  gulls  and  guil- 
lemots. 

So  as  it  chanced  we  lighted  on  a  path 

That  led  into  a  nutwood  ;  and  our  talk 

Was  louder  than  beseemed,  if  we  had 
known, 

With  argument  and  laughter  ;  for  the 
path. 

As  we  sped  onward,  took  a  sudden  turn 

Abrupt,  and  we  came  out  on  church- 
yard grass, 

And  close  upon  a  porch,  and  face  to 
face 

With  those  within,  and  with  the  thn-ty 
graves. 

We  heard  the  voice  of  one  who  preached 
within, 

And  stopped.  "  Come  on,"  my  brother 
whispered  me ; 

"  It  were  more  decent  that  we  enter 
now; 

Come  on  !  we'll  hear  this  rare  old  dem- 
igod : 

I  like  strong  men  and  large ;  I  like 
grey  heads, 

And  grand  gruff  voices,  hoarse  though 
this  may  be 

With  shouting  in  the  storm." 


It  was  not  hoarse, 
The  voice  that  preached  to  those  few 

fishermen. 
And  women,  nursing  mothers  with  the 

babes 
Hushed  on  their  breasts;   and  yet  it 

held  them  not : 
Their  drowsy  eyes  were  drawn  to  look 

at  us, 
Till,   having  leaned   our   rods   against 

the  wall. 
And  left  the  dogs  at  watch,  we  entered, 

sat, 
And  were  apprised  that,  though  he  saw 

us  not. 
The  parson  knew  that  he  had  lost  the 

eyes 
And  ears  of  those  before  him,  for  he 

made 
A  pause  —  a   long   dead    pause  —  and 

dropped  his  arms. 
And  stood  awaiting,  till  I  felt  the  red 
Mount  to  my  brow. 

And  a  soft  fluttering  stir 
Passed    over    all,    and    every   mother 

hushed 
The  babe  beneath  her  shawl,  and  he 

turned  round 
And  met  our  eyes,  unused  to  diffidence, 
But  diffident  of  his ;  then  with  a  sigh 
Fronted  the  folk,  lifted  his  grand  grey 

head. 
And  said,  as  one  that  pondered  now 

the  words 
He  had  been  preaching  on  with  new 

surprise. 
And  found  fresh  marvel  in  their  sound, 

"Behold! 
Behold!"  saith   He,   "I  stand  at  the 

door  and  knock." 

Then  said  the  parson:  "What!  and 
shall  He  wait, 

And  must  He  wait,  not  only  till  we  say, 

'Good  Lord,  the  house  is  clean,  the 
hearth  is  swept. 

The  children  sleep,  the  mackerel-boats 
are  in, 

And  all  the  nets  are  mended;  there- 
fore I 

Will  slowly  to  the  door  and  open  it ;' 

But  must  He  also  wait  where  still,  be- 
hold! 


7° 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON. 


He  stands  and  knocks,  while  we  do  say, 

'  Good  Lord, 
The   gentlefolk   are   come   to   worship 

here, 
And  I  will  up  and  open  to  Thee  soon  ; 
But  first  I  pray  a  little  longer  wait. 
For  I  am  taken  up  with  them  ;  my  eyes 
Must  needs  regard  the  fashion  of  their 

clothes, 
And  count  the  gains  I  think  to  make 

by  them ; 
Forsooth,   they  are  of  much  account, 

good  Lord! 
Therefore   have    patience   with   me  — 

wait,  dear  Lord! 
Or  come  again?' 

"  What  I  must  He  wait  for  thts  — 
For  this?     Ay,  He  doth  wait  for  this, 

and  still. 
Waiting  for  this,  He,   patient,  raileth 

not ; 
Waiting  for  this,  e'en  this   He  saith, 

^Behold! 
I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

"  O  patient  hand! 
Knocking   and  waiting  —  knocking  in 

the  night 
When  work  is  done !     I  charge  you,  by 

the  sea 
Whereby    you    fill    your     children's 

mouths,  and  by 
The  might  of  Him  that  made  it  —  fish- 
ermen ! 
I  charge  you,  mothers!  by  the  mother's 

milk 
He   drew,    and  by    His    Father,    God 

over  all. 
Blessed  for  ever,  that  ye  answer  Him! 
Open  the  door  with  shame,  if  ye  have 

sinned ; 
If  ye  be  sorry,  open  it  with  sighs. 
Albeit  the  place  be  bare  for  poverty. 
And  comfortless  for  lack  of  plenishing. 
Be  not  abashed  for  that,  but  open  it. 
And  take  Him  in  that  comes  to  sup 

with  thee ; 
'Behold!'    He  saith,  'I  stand  at  the 

door  and  knock.' 

"  Now,  hear  me :  there  be  troubles  in 
this  world 


That  no  man  can  escape,  and  there  is 
one 

That  lieth  hard  and  hea\'y  on  my  soul, 

Concerning  that  which  is  to  come  :  — 
I  say 

As  a  man  that  knows  what   earthly 
trouble  means, 

I   will   not  bear  this  one  —  I  cannot 
bear 

This  ONE — I  cannot  bear  the  weght 
of  you  — 

You  —  every  one  of  you,  body  and  soul ; 

You,  with  the  care  you  suffer,  and  the 
loss 

That  you  sustain  ;  you,  with  the  grow- 
ing up 

To  peril,  maybe  with  the  grow-ing  old 

To  want,   unless  before  I  stand  with 
you 

At  the  great  white  throne,  I   may  be 
free  of  all, 

And  utter  to  the  full  what  shall  dis- 
charge 

Mine  obligation  :  nay,  I  %vill  not  wait 

A  day,  for  every  time  the  black  clouds 
rise. 

And  the  gale  freshens,  still  I  search 
my  soul 

To  find  if  there  be  aught  that  can  per- 
suade 

To  good,  or  aught  forsooth  that  can 
beguile 

From  evil,  that  I  (miserable  man ! 

If  that  be  so)  have  left  unsaid,  undone. 

"  So  that  when  any  risen  from  sunken 

wrecks, 
Or  rolled  in  by  the  billow-s  to  the  edge 
Of  the  everlasting  strand,  what   time 

the  sea 
Gives  up  her  dead,  shall  meet  me,  they 

may  say 
Never,  'Old  man,  you  told  us  not  of 

this ; 
You  left  us  fisher-lads  that  had  to  toil 
Ever  in  danger  of  the  secret  stab 
Of  rocks,  far  deadlier  than  the  dagger  ; 

winds 
Of  breath   more   murderous  than  the 

cannon's ;  waves 
Mighty  to  rock  us  to  our  death ;   and 

gulfs 
Ready  beneath  to  suck  and  swallow  us 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON. 


71 


This  crime  be  on  your  head ;  and  as 

for  us  — 
What  shall  we  do?'  but  rather  —  nay, 

not  so, 
I  will  not  think  it ;    I  will  leave  the 

dead. 
Appealing  l5ut  to  life :  I  am  afraid 
Of  you,  but  not  so  much  if  you  have 

sinned 
As  for  the  doubt  if  sin  shall  be  forgiven. 
The  day  was,   I  have  been  afraid  of 

pride  — 
Hard  man's  hard  pride  ;  but  now  I  am 

afraid 
Of  man's  humility.     I  counsel  you, 
By  the  great  God's  great  humbleness, 

and  by 
His  pity,  be  not  humble  over-much. 
See !    I  will  show  at  whose  unopened 

doors 
He  stands  and  knocks,  that  you  may 

never  say, 
'  I  am  too  mean,  too  ignorant,  too  lost ; 
He  knocks  at  other  doors,  but  not  at 

mine.' 


"See  here!  it  is  the  night!    it  is  the 

night ! 
And  snow  lies  thickly,  white  untrodden 

snow. 
And  the  wan  moon  upon  a  casement 

shines  — 
A  casement   crusted  o'er   with  frosty 

leaves. 
That  make  her  ray  less  bright  along  the 

floor. 
A  woman  sits,  with   hands  upon  her 

knees. 
Poor  tired  soul !  and  she  has  nought  to 

do. 
For  there  is  neither  fire   nor  candle 

light : 
The  driftwood  ash  lies  cold  upon  her 

hearth  ; 
The  rushlight  flickered  down  an  hour 

Her  children  wail  a  little  in  their  sleep 
For  cold  and  hunger  ;  and,  as  if  that 

sound 
Was  not  enough,  another  comes  to  her, 
Over  God's  undefiled  snow  —  a  song  — 
Nay,  never  hang  your  heads  —  I  say,  a 

song. 


"  And  doth  she  curse  the  alehouse, 
and  the  sots 

That  drink  the  night  out  and  their  earn- 
ings there, 

And  drink  their  manly  strength  and 
courage  down. 

And  drink  away  the  little  children's 
bread, 

And  starve  her,  starving  by  the  self- 
same act 

Her  tender  suckling,  that  with  piteous 
eyes 

Looks  in  her  face,  till  scarcely  she  has 
heart 

To  work  and  earn  the  scanty  bit  and 
drop 

That  feed  the  others? 

"  Does  she  curse  the  song? 

I  think  not,  fishermen ;  I  have  not 
heard 

Such  women  curse.  God's  curse  is 
curse  enough. 

To-morrow  she  will  say  a  bitter  thing, 

Pulling  her  sleeve  down  lest  the  bruises 
show  — 

A  bitter  thing,  but  meant  for  an  ex- 
cuse — 

'  My  master  is  not  worse  than  many 
men : ' 

But  now,  ay,  now  she  sitteth  dumb  and 
still ; 

No  food,  no  comfort,  cold  and  poverty 

Bearing  her  down. 

"  My  heart  is  sore  for  lier ; 
How  long,  how  long?     When  troubles 

come  of  God, 
When   men   are   frozen   out   of    work, 

when  wives 
Are  sick,  when  working  fathers  fail  and 

die. 
When    boats  go   down  at   sea  — then 

naught  behooves 
Like  patience  ;  but  for  troubles  wrought 

of  men 
Patience  is  hard  —  I  tell  you  it  is  hard. 

"  O  thou  poor  soul !  it  is  the  jiight  — 

the  night ; 
Against  thy  door  drifts  up  the  silent 

snow. 
Blocking  thy  threshold  :    '  Fall,'    thou 

sayest,  'fall,  fall, 


72 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON, 


Cold  snow,  and  lie  and  be  trod  under- 
foot. 
Am  not  I  fallen?   wake  up  and  pipe, 

O  wind, 
Dull  wind,  and  beat  and  bluster  at  my 

door: 
Merciful  wind,  sing  me  a  hoarse  rough 

song, 
For  there  is  other  music  made  to-night 
That  I  would  fain  not  hear.     Wake, 

thou  still  sea. 
Heavily    plunge.      Shoot     on,     white 

waterfall. 
O,  I  could  long  like  thy  cold  icicles 
Freeze,   freeze,    and    hang    upon    the 

frosty  clift 
And  not  complain,  so  I  might  melt  at 

last 
In  the  warm  summer  sun,  as  thou  wilt 

do! 

"  '  But  woe  is  me  !  I  think  there  is  no 
sun  ; 

My  sun  is  sunken,  and  the  night  grows 
dark: 

None  care  for  me.  The  children  cry 
for  bread. 

And  I  have  none,  and  naught  can  com- 
fort me  ; 

Even  if  the  heavens  were  free  to  such 
as  I, 

It  were  not  much,  for  death  is  long  to 
wait. 

And  heaven  is  far  to  go  ! ' 

"And  speak'st  thou  thus. 
Despairing  of  the  sun  that  sets  to  thee. 
And  of  the  earthly  love  that  wanes  to 

thee. 
And  of  the  heaven  that  lieth  far  from 

thee  ? 
Peace,  peace,  fond  fool !    One  draweth 

near  thy  door 
Whose  footsteps  leave  no  print  across 

the  snow : 
Thy  sun  has  risen  with  comfort  in  his 

face, 
The  smile  of  heaven,  to  waini  thy  frozen 

heart 
And  bless  with  saintly  hand.     What ! 

is  it  long 
To  wait,  and  far  to  go?     Thou  shalt 

not  go  ; 


Behold,   across  the  snow  to  thee  He 

comes, 
Thy  heaven  descends  ;  and  is  it  long  to 

wait  ? 
Thou  shalt  not  wait :   'This  night,  this 

night,'   He  saith, 
'  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

"  It  is  enough  —  can  such  an  one  be 
here  — 

Yea,  here?  O  God  forgive  you,  fisher- 
men ! 

One  I  is  there  only  one?  But  do  thou 
know, 

0  woman  pale  for  want,   if  thou  art 

here. 
That  on  thy  lot  much  thought  is  spent 

in  heaven  ; 
And,  coveting  the  heart  a  hard  man 

broke. 
One  standeth  patient,  watching  in  the 

night, 
And  waiting  in  the  day-time. 

"  What  shall  be 
If  thou  v\alt  answer  ?    He  will  smile  on 

thee  ; 
One  smile  of  His  shall  be  enough  to 

heal 
The  wound  of  man's  neglect ;  and  He 

will  sigh, 
Pitying  the  trouble  which  that  sigh  shall 

cure ; 
And  He  will  speak  —  speak  in  the  des- 
olate night. 
In  the  dark  night:  'For  me  a  thorny 

crown 
Men  wove,  and  nails  were  driven  in  my 

hands 
And  feet :    there  was  an   earthquake, 

and  I  died  ; 

1  died,  and  am  alive  for  evermore. 

"  '  I  died  for  thee  ;  for  thee  I  am  alive. 
And  my  humanity  doth  mourn  for  thee. 
For  thou  art  mine ;  and  all  thy  little 

ones, 
The)',  too,  are  mine,   are  mine.     Be- 
hold, the  house 
Is  dark,  but  there  is  brightness  where 

the  sons 
Of  God  are  singing;  and,  behold,  the 
heart 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 


73 


Is  troubled:    yet   the  nations  walk  in 

white  : 
They  have  forgotten  how  to  weep  ;  and 

thou 
Shalt  also  come,  and  I  will  foster  thee 
And  satisfy  thy  soul ;  and  thou  shalt 

warm 
Thy  trembling  life  beneath  the  smile  of 

God. 
A  little  while  —  it  is  a  little  while  — 
A  litlle  while,  and  I  will  comfort  thee  ; 
I  go  away,  but  I  will  come  again.' 

"  But  hear  me  yet.     There  was  a  poor 

old  man 
Who  sat  and  listened  to  the  raging  sea. 
And  heard  it  thunder,  lunging  at  the 

cliffs 
As  like  to  tear  them  down.     He  lay  at 

night  ; 
And  '  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lads,' 

said  he, 
'That  sailed  at  noon,  though  they  be 

none  of  mine! 
For  when  the  gale  gets  up,  and  when 

the  wind 
Fhngs  at  the  window,  when  it   beats 

the  roof, 
And  lulls,  and   stops,    and  rouses  up 

again, 
And  cuts  the  crest  clean  off  the  plung- 
ing wave, 
And  scatters  it  like  feathers  up  the  field, 
\s  hy,  then  I  think  of  my  two  lads :  my 

lads 
That  would  have  worked  and  never  let 

me  want. 
And  never  let  me  take  the  parish  pay. 
No,    none    of    mine  ;    my    lads    were 

drowned  at  sea  — 
My  two  —  before   the  most  of  these 

were  born. 
I  know  how  sharp  that  cuts,  since  my 

poor  wife 
Walked  up  and  down,  and  still  walked 

up  and  down. 
And  I  walked  after,  and  one  could  not 

hear 
A  word  the  other  said,  for  wind  and 

sea 
That  raged  and  beat  and  thundered  in 

the  night  — 
The    awfullest,    the    longest,    lightest 

night 


That  ever  parents  had  to   spend  —  a 

moon 
That  shone  like  daylight  on  the  break- 
ing wave. 
Ah  me  !  and  other  men  have  lost  their 

lads, 
And   other  women   wiped    their  poor 

dead  mouths. 
And  got  them  home  and  dried  them  in 

the  house. 
And  seen  the  driftwood  lie  along  the 

coast 
That  was  a  tidy  boat  but  one  day  back. 
And  seen  next  tide  the  neighbors  gather 

it 
To  lay  it  on  their  fires. 

Ay,  I  was  strong 
And  able-bodied  —  loved  my  work;  — 

but  now 
I  am  a  useless  hull :  'tis  time  I  sunk ; 
I  am  in  all  men's  way  ;  I  trouble  them  ; 
I  am  a  trouble  to  myself:  but  yet 
I  feel  for  mariners  of  stormy  nights. 
And  feel  for  wives  that  watch  ashore. 

Ay,  ay ! 
If  I  had  learning  I  would  pray  the  Lord 
To  bring  them  in  :  but  I'm  no  scholar, 

no ; 
Book-learning  is  a  world  too  hard  for 

me  : 
But  I  make  bold  to  say,  O  Lord,  good 

Lord, 
I  am  a  broken-down  poor  man,  a  fool 
To  speak   to  Thee :  but  in  the  Book 

'tis  writ. 
As  I  hear  say  from  others  that  can  read. 
How,  when  Thou  camest,  Thou  didst 

love  the  sea, 
And  live  with  iisherfolk,  whereby  'tis 

sure 
Thou   knowest  all   the   peril   they  go 

through. 
And  all  their  trouble. 

As  for  me,  good  Lord, 
I  have  no  boat ;  lam  too  old,  too  old  — 
My  lads  are  drowned  ;  I  buried  my  poor 

wife ; 
My  little  lasses  died  so  long  ago 
That  mostly  I  forget  what  they  were 

like. 
Thou  knowest,   Lord  ;  they  were  such 
X.         little  ones 

I  know  they  went  to  thee,  but  I  forget 
Their  faces,  though  I  missed  them  sore. 


74 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON: 


O  Lord, 
I  was  a  strong  man  ;  I  have  drawn  good 

food 
And  made    good  money   out  of    Thy 

great  sea : 
But  yet  I  cried  for  them  at  nights  ;  and 

now, 
Ahhough  I  be  so  old,  I  miss   my  lads, 
And  there  be   many  folk  this  stormy 

nii;ht 
Heavy  with  fear  for  theirs.     Merciful 

Lord, 
Comfort  them  ;  save  their  honest  boys, 

their  pride. 
And  let  them  hear  next  ebb  the  bless- 

edest, 
Best  sound  —  the  boat  keels  grating  on 

the  sand. 


"  '  I  cannot  pray  with  finer  words :  I 

know 
Nothing ;  I  have  no  learning,   cannot 

learn  — 
Too  old,  too  old.     They  say  I  want  for 

naught, 
I  have  the  parish  pay ;  but  I  am  dull 
Of  hearing,  and  the  fire  scarce  warms 

me  through. 
God  save  me  —  I   liave  been  a  sinful 

man  — 
And  save  the  lives  of  them  that  still 

can  work. 
For  they  are  good  to  me ;  ay,  good  to 

me. 
But,  Lord,  I  am  a  trouble !  and  I  sit. 
And  I   am  lonesome,  and   the   nights 

are  few 
That  any  think  to  come  and  draw  a 

chair, 
And  sit  in   my  poor  place    and   talk 

awhile. 
Why  sliould  they  come,  forsooth  ?  Only 

the  wind 
Knocks  at  my  door,  O  long  and  loud  it 

knocks. 
The  only  thing  God  made  that  has  a 

mind 
To  enter  in.' 


"  Yea,  thus  the  old  man  spake ; 
These  were  the  last  words  of  his  aged 
mouth  — 


But  One  did  knock.     One  came  to 

sup  with  him, 
That  hiunble,  weak  old  man ;  knocked 

at  his  door 
In  the  rough   pauses  of  the  laboring 

wind. 
I  tell  you  that  One  knocked  while  it 

was  dark, 
Save  where  their  foaming  passion  had 

made  white 
Those   livid    seething   billows.     What 

He  said 
In  that  poor  place  where  He  did  talk 

awhile 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  am  assured. 
That  when   the   neighbors    came   the 

morrow  morn, 
What  time   the  wind  had  bated,  and 

the  sun 
Shone  on  the  old  man's  floor,  they  saw 

the  smile 
He  passed  away  in,  and  they  said,  '  He 

looks 
As  he  had  woke  and  seen  the  face  of 

Christ, 
And  with  that  rapturous  smile  held  out 

his  arms 
To  come  to  Him ! ' 

"  Can  such  an  one  be  here, 
So  old,  so  weak,  so  ignorant,  so  frail  ? 
The   Lord  be  good  to  thee,  thou  poor 

old  man  ; 
It  wou'.d  be  hard  with  thee  if  heaven 

were  shut 
To  such  as  have  not  learning!     Nay, 

nay,  nay, 
He  condescends  to  them  of  low  estate  ; 
To  such  as  are  despised   He  coraeth 

down, 
Stands  at  the  door  and  knocks. 

"  Yet  bear  with  me. 

I  have  a  message ;  I  have  more  to  say. 

Shall  sorrow  win  His  pity,  and  not  sin  — 

That  burden  ten  times  heavier  to  be 
borne .' 

What  think  you?  Shall  the  virtuous 
have  His  care 

Alone?  O  virtuous  women,  think  not 
scorn, 

For  you  may  lift  your  faces  every- 
where ; 


BROTHERS,   AND  A    SERMON: 


75 


And  now  that  it  grows  dusk,  and  I  can 
see 

None  though  they  front  me  straight,  I 
fain  would  tell 

A  certain  thing  to  you.     I  say  to  j'o«  ; 

And  if  it  doth  concern  you,  as  methinks 

It  doth,  then  surely  it  concernelh  all. 

I  say  that  there  was  once  —  1  say  not 
here  — 

I  say  that  there  was  once  a  castaway, 

And  she  was  weeping,  weeping  bitterly  ; 

Kneeling,  and  crying  with  a  heart-sick 
cry 

That  choked  itself  in  sobs — 'O  my 
good  name ! 

O  my  good  name !  '  And  none  did 
hear  her  cry ! 

Nay  ;  and  it  lightened,  and  the  storm- 
bolts  fell, 

And  the  rain  splashed  upon  the  roof, 
and  still 

She,  storm-tost  as  the  storming  ele- 
ments — 

She  cried  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry, 

'  O  my  good  name  ! '  And  then  the 
thunder-cloud 

Stooped  low  and  burst  in  darkness  over- 
head. 

And  rolled,  and  rocked  her  on  her 
knees,  and  shook 

The  frail  foundations  of  her  dwelling- 
place. 

But  she  —  if  any  neighbor  had  come  in 

(None  did) :  if  any  neighbors  had  come 
in. 

They  might  have  seen  her  crying  on 
her  knees, 

And  sobbing,  '  Lost,  lost,  lost !  '  beat- 
ing her  breast  — 

Her  breast  for  ever  pricked  with  cruel 
thorns. 

The  wounds  whereof  could  neither  balm 
assuage 

Nor  any  patience  heal  —beating  her 
brow, 

Which  ached,  it  had  been  bent  so  long 
to  hide 

From  level  eyes,  whose  meaning  was 
contempt. 


"O    ye    good  women,    it   is   hard    to 

leave 
The  paths  of  virtue,  and  return  again. 


What  if  this  sinner  wept,  and  none  of 

you 
Comforted  her  ?     And  what  if  she  did 

strive 
To  mend,  and  none  of  you  believed  her 

strife. 
Nor  looked  upon  her  ?    Mark,  I  do  not 

say. 
Though  it  was  hard,  you  therefore  were 

to  blame 
That  she  had  aught  against  you,  though 

your  feet 
Never  drew  near  her  door.     But  I  be- 
seech 
Your  patience.     Once  in  old  Jerusalem 
A  woman  kneeled  at  consecrated  feet, 
Kissed  them,   and  washed  them  with 

her  tears. 

What  then? 
I  think  that  yet  our  Lord  is  pitiful : 
I  think  I  see  the  castaway  e'en  now! 
And  she  is  not  alone  :  the  heavy  rain 
Splashes  without,  and   sullen  thunder 

rolls,    , 
But  she  is  lying  at  the  sacred  feet 
Of  One  transfigured. 

"  And  her  tears  flow  down, 
Down  to  her  lips  —  her  lips  that  kiss 

the  print 
Of  nails  ;  and  love  is  like  to  break  her 

heart ! 
Love  and  repentance  —  for  it  still  doth 

work 
Sore  in  her  soul  to  think,  to  think  that 

she. 
Even  she,  did  pierce  the  sacred,  sacred 

feet, 
And  bruise  the  thorn-crowned  head. 

"  O  Lord,  our  Lord, 
How  great  is  Thy  compassion !     Come, 

good  Lord, 
For  we  will  open.     Come  this  night, 

good  Lord  ; 
Stand  at  the  door  and  knock. 

"And  is  this  all? 
Trouble,  old  age  and  simpleness,  and 

sin  — 
This  all  ?     It  might  be  all  some  other 

night ; 
But  this  night,  if  a  voice  said,  '  Give 

account 


76 


A   WEDDING  SONG. 


Whom    hast    thou   wdth   thee?'    then 

must  I  reply, 
'Young    manhood    have    I,    beautiful 

youth  and  strength, 
Rich  with  all  treasure  drawn  up  from 

the  crypt 
Where  lies  the  learning  of  the  ancient 

world  — 
Brave  with  all  thoughts  that  poets  fling 

upon 
The  strand  of  life,   as  drlftweed  after 

storms : 
Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  mountain 

heads, 
And  the  dread  purity  of  Alpine  snows. 
Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  works  con- 
cealed 
For    ages    from    mankind  —  outlying 

worlds. 
And  many  mooned  spheres  —  and  Thy 

great  store 
Of  stars,  more  thick  than  mealy  dust 

which  here 
Powders  the  pale  leaves  of  auriculas. 

" '  This  do  I  know,  but,  Lord,  I  know 
not  more. 

"'Not  more  concerning  them  —  con- 
cerning Thee, 

I  know  Thy  bounty  ;  where  Thou  giv- 
es! much  ^ 

Standing  without,  if  any  call  Thee  in 

Thou  givest  more.'  Speak,  then,  O 
rich  and  strong  : 

Open,  O  happy  young,  ere  yet  the 
hand 

Of  Him  that  knocks,  wearied  at  last, 
forbear ; 

The  patient  foot  its  thankless  quest  re- 
frain. 

The  wounded  heart  for  evermore  with- 
draw." 

I  have  heard  many  speak,  but  this  one 

man  — 
So  anxious  not  to  go  to  heaven  alone  — 
This   one   man    I   remember,   and   his 

look, 
Till  tivilight  overshadowed  him.     He 

ceased. 
And   out   in  darkness  with  the  fisher 

folk 


We  passed  and  stumbled  over  mounds 

of  moss. 
And  heard,  but  did  not  see,  the  passing 

beck. 
Ah,  graceless  heart,  would  that  it  could 


past 
The  impress  full  of  tender  awe,  that 

night, 
Which  fell  on  me!     It  was  as  if  the 

Christ 
Had  been  drawn  down  from  heaven  to 

track  us  home. 
And  any  of  the  footsteps  following  us 
Might  have  been  His. 


A  WEDDING  SONG. 

Come  up  the  broad  river,  the  Thames, 
my  Dane, 
My  Dane  with  the  beautiful  eyes  ! 
Thousands  and  thousands  await   thee 
full  fain, 
And  talk  of  the  wind  and  the  skies. 
Fear  not  from  folk  and  from  country  to 
part, 
O,  I  swear  it  is  wisely  done ; 
For  (I   said)  I  will  bear  me  by  thee, 
sweetheart, 
As  becometh  my  father's  son. 

Great  London  was  shouting  as  I  went 
dowTi. 
"  She  is  worthy,"  I  said,  ''  of  this  ; 
What  shall  I  give  who  have  promised 
a  crown  ? 
O,  first  I  will  give  her  a  kiss." 
So  i  kissed  her  and  brought  her,  my 
Dane,  my  Dane, 
Through    the    waving   wonderful 
crowd : 
Thousands  and  thousands,  they  shouted 
amain. 
Like  mighty  thunders  and  loud. 

And  they  said,  "  He  is  young,  the  lad 
we  love, 
The  heir  of  the  Isles  is  young  : 
How  we  deem  of  his  mother,  and  one 
gone  above. 
Can  neither  be  said  nor  sung. 


THE  FOUR   BRIDGES. 


77 


He  brings  us  a  pledge  —  he  will  do  his 
part 
With   the   best   of  his   race   and 
name  ; "  — 
And  I  will,  for  I  look  to  live,  sweet- 
heart. 
As  may  suit  with  my  mother's  fame. 


THE    FOUR   BRIDGES. 

I  LOVE  this  grey  old  church,  the  low, 

long  nave, 
The   ivied  chancel  and  the  slender 

spire  ; 
No  less  its  shadow  on  each  heaving 

grave. 
With  growing  osier  bound,  or  living 

briar ; 
I   love   those  yew-tree  trunks,   where 

stand  arrayed 
So  many  deep-cut  names  of  youth  and 

maid. 

A  simple  custom  this —  I  love  it  well  — 
A  carved  betrothal  and  a  pledge  of 

truth  ; 
How  many  an  eve,  their  linked  names 

to  spell. 
Beneath  the  yew-trees  sat  our  village 

youth ! 
When  work  was  over,  and  the  new-cut 

hay 
Sent  wafts  of  balm  from  meadows  where 

it  lay. 

Ah  !  many  an  eve,  w-hile  I  was  yet  a 

boy. 
Some  village  hind  has  beckoned  me 

aside. 
And  sought  mine  aid,  with  shy  and 

awkward  joy. 
To  carve  the  letters  of  his  rustic  b  ide, 
And  make  them  clear  to  read  as  graven 

stone. 
Deep  in  the   yew-tree's   trunk   beside 

his  own. 

For  none  could  carve  like  me,  and  here 
they  stand. 
Fathers  and  mothers  of  the  present 
race ; 


And  underscored  by  some  less  practised 

hand. 
That  fain  the  story  of  its  line  would 

trace. 
With  children's  names,  and   number, 

and  tlie  day 
When  any  called  to  God  have  passed 

away. 

I  look  upon  them,  and  I  turn  aside. 
As  oft  when  carving  them  I  did  ere- 

while  ; 
And  there  I  see  those  wooden  bridges 

wide 
That  cross  the  marshy  hollow  ;  there 

the  stile 
In  reeds  imbedded,  and   the  swelling 

down. 
And  the  white  road  toward  the  distant 

town. 

But  those  old  bridges  claiin   another 

look. 
Our  brattling  river  tumbles  through 

the  one  ; 
The    second   spans  a  shallow,  weedy 

brook  ; 
Beneath  the  others,  and  beneath  the 

sun. 
Lie  two  long  stilly  pools,  and  on  their 

breasts 
Picture  their  wooden  piles,  encased  in 

swallows'  nests. 

And  round  about  them  grows  a  fringe 
of  reeds. 
And   then   a  floating  crown   of  lily 
flowers. 

And    yet    within    small    silver-budded 
weeds ; 
But  each  clear  centre  evermore  em- 
bowers 

A   deeper  sky,   where,   stooping,   you 
may  see 

The  little  minnows  darting  restlessly. 

My  heart  is  bitter,  lilies,  at  your  sweet ; 
Why  did  the  dewdrop  fringe  your 
chalices? 
Why  in  your  beauty  are  you  thus  com- 
plete. 
You  silver  ships  —  you  floating  pal- 
aces? 


78 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


O!  if  need  be,  you  must  allure  man's 

eye, 
Yet  wherefore  blossom  here  ?     O  why  ? 

O  why  ? 

O !    O !    the  world  is  wide,   you   lily 

flowers, 
It  hath  warm  forests,  cleft  by  stilly 

pwols, 
Where   everj'  night    bathe   crowds  of 

stars ;  and  bowers 
Of  spicery  hangover.    Sweet  air  cools 
And  shakes  the  lilies  among  those  stars 

that  lie  : 
Why  are  not  ye  content  to  reign  there  ? 

Why  ? 

That  chain  of  bridges,  it  were  hard  to 

tell 
How  it  is  linked  with  all  my  early  joy. 
There  was  a  little  foot  that  I  loved  well, 
It  danced  across  them  when  I  was  a 

boy; 
There  was  a  careless  voice  that  used  to 

sing; 
There  was  a  child,  a  sweet  and  happy 

thing. 

Oft  through  that  matted  wood  of  oak 

and  birch 
She  came  from  yonder  house  upon 

the  hill ; 
She  crossed  the  wooden  bridges  to  the 

church, 
And  watched,  with  village  girls,  my 

boasted  skill  : 
But  loved  to  watch  the  floating  lilies 

best. 
Or  linger,  peering  in  a  swallow's  nest ; 

Linger  and  linger,  with   her  wistful 
eyes 
Drawn  to  the  lily-buds  that  lay  so 
white 

And  soft  on  crimson  water ;   for  the 
skies 
Would  crimson,  and  the  little  cloud- 
lets bright 

Would  all  be  flung  among  the  flowers 
sheer  down. 

To  flush  the  spaces  of  their  clustering 
crown. 


Till  the  green  rushes  —  O,  so  glossy 
green  — ■ 
The  rushes,  they  would  whisper, 
rustle,  shake  ; 

And  forth  on  floating  gauze,  no  jew- 
elled queen 
So  rich,  the  green-eyed  dragon-flies 
v\ould  break. 

And  hover  on  the  flowers  —  aerial 
things, 

With  little  rainbows  flickenng  on  their 
vrings. 

Ah!  my  heart  dear!  the  polished  pools 

he  still. 
Like  lanes  of  water  reddened  by  the 

west. 
Till,   swooping  down  from  yon  o'er- 

hanging  hill. 
The  bold  marsh  harrier  wets  her 

tawny  breast ; 
We  scared  her  oft  in  childhood  from 

her  prey, 
And  the  old  eager  thoughts  rise  fresh 

as  yesterday. 

To  yonder  copse  by  moonlight  I  did  go, 

In  luxur\-  of  mischief,  half  afraid, 
To  steal  the  great  owl's  brood,  her 

downy  snow. 
Her  screaming  imps  to  seize,  the 

while  she  preyed 
With  yellow,  cruel  eyes,  whose  radiant 

^lare, 
Fell  with  their  mother  rage,  I  might 

not  dare. 

Panting  I  lay  till  h  er  great  fanning  wings 
Troubled  the  dreams  of  rock-doves, 
slumbering  nigh. 
And  she  and  her  fierce  mate,  like  evil 
things, 
Skimmed  the  dusk  fields  ;  then  rising, 
with  a  cry 
Of  fear,  joy,  triumph,  darted  on  my 

prey. 
And  tore  it  from  the  nest  and  fled  away. 

But  afterward,  belated  in  the  wood, 
I  saw  her  moping  on  the  rifled  tree, 

And  my  heart  smote  me  for  her,  while 
I  stood 
Awakened  from  my  careless  reverie  ; 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


79 


So  white  she  looked,  with  moonlight 

round  her  shed, 
So  motherlike  she  drooped  and  hung 

her  head. 


O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me !     I 

behold 
The  godwits  running  by  the  water 

edge, 
The  mossy  bridges  mirrored  as  of  old  ; 
The  little  curlews  creeping  from  the 

sedge. 
But  not  the  little  foot  so  gayly  light: 
O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me,  that 

1  might !  — 

Would  cheat  me !     I  behold  the  gable- 
ends  — 
Those  purjilfe  pigeons  clustering  on 
the  cote  ; 

The  lane  with  maples  overhung,  that 
bends 
Toward  lier  dwelling  ;  the  dry  grassy 
moat. 

Thick   mullions,   diamond-latticed, 
mossed  and  grey, 

And  walls  banked  up  with  laurel  and 
with  bay. 


And  up  behind  them  yellow  fields  of 
corn. 
And  still  ascending  countless  firry 
si)ires, 

Dry  slopes  of  hills  uncultured,    bare, 
forlorn, 
And  green  in  rocky  clefts  with  whi^s 
and  briars ; 

Then  rich  cloud  masses  dyed  the  vio- 
let's hue, 

With  orange  sunbeams  dropping  swiftly 
through. 

Ay,  I  behold  all  this  full  easily  ; 

My  soul  is  jealous  of  my  happier  eyes. 
And   manhood   envies  youth.     Ah, 
strange  to  see. 
By  looking  merely,  orange-flooded 
skies ; 
Nay,  any  dew-drop  that  may  near  me 

shine  : 
But  never  more  the  face  of  Eglantine ! 


She  was  my  one  companion,  being 
herself 
The  jewel  and  adornment  of  my  days, 
My  life's  completeness.  O,  a  smiling  eif, 
That   1  do  but  disparage  with  my 
praise  — 
My  playmate ;  and  I  loved  her  dearly 

and  long. 
And  she  loved  me,  as  the  tender  love 
the  strong. 

Ay,  but  she  grew,  till  on  a  time  there 
came 
A   sudden    restless  yearning  to  my 
heart ; 
And  as  we  went  a-nesting,  all  for  shame 
And  shyness,  I  did  hold  my  peace, 
and  start ; 
Content  departed,  comfort  shut  me  out, 
And  there  was  nothing  left  to  talk  about. 

She  had  but  sixteen  years,  and  as  for  me, 
Four  added   made   my  life.     This 
pretty  bird, 

This  fairy  bird  that  I  had  cherished  — 
she, 
Content,    had    sung,    while    I,    con- 
tented, heard. 

The  song  had  ceased ;  the  bird,  with 
nature's  art. 

Had  brought  a  thorn  and  set  it  in  my 
heart. 

The  restless  birth  of  love  my  soul  op- 

prest ; 
I  longed  and  wrestled  for  a  tranquil 

day. 
And  warred  with   that  disquiet  in  my 

breast 
As  one  who  knows  there  is  a  better 

way  ; 
But,  turned  against  myself,  I  still  in  vain 
Looked  for  the  ancient  calm  to  come 

again. 

My  tired  soul  could  to  itself  confess 
That  she  deserved  a  wiser  love  than 
mine  ; 

To  love  more  truly  were  to  love  her  less, 
And  for  this  truth  I  still  awoke  to 


A  better  thing  for  her,  a  blessfed  thing 
for  me. 


8o 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 


Good  hast  Thou   made  them  —  com- 
forters right  sweet ; 
Good  hast  Thou  made  the  world,  to 
mankind  lent ; 

Good  are  Thy  dropping  clouds  that  feed 
the  wheat ; 
Good  are  Thy  stars  above  the  firma- 
ment. 

Take  to  Thee,  take,  Thy  worship,  Thy 
renown  ; 

The  good  which  Thou  hast  made  doth 
wear  Thy  crown. 

For,  O  my  God,  Thy  creatures  are  so 

frail, 
Thy  bountiful  creation  is  so  fair, 
That,  drawn  before  us  like  the  temple 

veil. 
It  hides  the  Holy  Place  from  thought 

and  care. 
Giving  man's  eyes  instead  its  sweeping 

fold, 
Rich  as  with  cherub  wings  and  apples 

wrought  of  gold, 

Purple  and  blue  and  scarlet  —  shimmer- 
ing bells 
And  rare  pomegranates  on  its  broid- 
ered  rim. 

Glorious  with  chain  and  fret  work  that 
tlie  swell 
Of  incense  shakes  to  music  dreamy 
and  dim. 

Till  on  a  day  comes  loss,   that   God 
makes  gain. 

And  death  and  darkness  rend  the  veil 
in  twain. 

Ah,  sweetest!  my  beloved!  each  out- 
ward thing 
Recalls  my  youth,  and  is  instinct  w  ith 
thee  ; 

Brown  wood-owls  in  the  dusk,   with 
noiseless  wing. 
Float   from   yon   hanger  to  their 
haunted  tree. 

And  hoot  full  softly.     Listening,  I  re- 
gain 

A  flashing  thought  of  thee  with  their 
remembered  strain. 

I  vi'ill  not  pine  —  it  is  the  careless  brook, 
"  These  amber  sunbeams  slanting  down 
the  vale ; 


It  is  the  long  tree-shadows,  with  their 

look 
Of  natural  peace,  that  make  my  heart 

to  fail : 
The  peace  of  nature — No,  I  will  not 

pine  — 
But  O  the  contrast  'twixt  her  face  and 

mine ! 

And  still  I  changed  —  I  was  a  boy  no 
more ; 
My  heart  was  large  enough  to  hold 
my  kind, 

And  all  the  world.     As  hath  been  oft 
before 
With  youth,   I  sought,  but  I  could 
never  find 

Work  hard  enough  to  quiet   my  self- 
strife. 

And  use  the  strength  of  action-craving 
life. 

^Slie,  too,  was  changea :  her  bountiful 
sweet  eyes 
Looked  out  full  lovingly  on  all  the 
world. 
O  tender  as  the  deeps  in  yonder  skies 
Their  beaming !  but  her  rosebud  lips 
were  curled 
With  the  soft  dimple  of  a  musing  smile. 
Which  kept  my  gaze,  but  held  me  mute 
the  while. 


A  cast  of  bees,  a  slowly  moving  wain, 
The  scent  of  bean-flowers  wafted  up 
a  dell. 

Blue  pigeons  wheeling  over  fields  of 
grain. 
Or  bleat  of  folded  lamb,  would  please 
her  well, 

Or  cooing  of  the  early  coted  dove  ;  — 

She,  sauntering,  mused  of  these  ;  I,  fol- 
lowing, mused  of  love. 


With  her  two  lips,  that  one  the  other 
pressed 
So  jioutingly  with  such  a  tranquil  air, 
With  her  two  eyes,  that  on  my  owu 
would  lest 
So  dream-like,  she  denied  my  silent 
prayer, 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


Fronted  unuttered  words,  and  said  them 

nay, 
And  smiled  down  iove  till  it  had  nought 

to  say. 

The  words   that    through    mine    eyes 
would  clearly  shine 
Hovered  and  hovered  on  my  lips  in 
vain  ; 

If  after  pause  I  said  but  "  Eglantine," 
She  raised  to  me  her  quiet  eyelids 
twain. 

And  looked  me  this  reply  —  look  calm, 
yet  bland  — 

"  I  shall  not  know,   I  will  not  under- 
stand." 

Yet  she  did  know  my  story  —  knew  my 

life 
Was  wrought  to  hers  with  bindings 

many  and  strong : 
That  I,  like  Israel,  served  for.a  wife, 
And  for  the  love  I  bare  her  thought 

not  long. 
But  only  a  few  days,  full  quickly  told. 
My  seven  years'  service  strict  as  his  of 

old. 


I  must  be  brief :  the  twilight  shadows 
grow, 
And  steal  the  rose-bloom  genial  sum- 
mer sheds. 

And  scented  wafts  of  wind  that  come 
and  go 
Have  lifted  dew  from  honeyed  clover- 
lieads; 

The  seven  stars  shine  out  above  the  mill, 

The  dark  delightsome  woods  lie  veiled 
and  still. 


Hush!   hush!   the  nightingale  begins 

to  sing. 
And  stoi)s,  as  ill  contented  with  her 

note ; 
Then  breaks  from  out  the  bush  with 

hurried  wing, 
Restless  and  passionate.     She  tunes 

her  throat. 
Laments  a  while  in  wavering  trills,  and 

then 
Floods  with  a  stream  of  sweetness  all 

the  glen. 


The  seven  stars  upon  the  nearest  pool 
Lie  trembling  down  betwixt  the  lily 

leaves. 
And  move  like  glowworms ;  wafting 

breezes  cool 
Come  down  along  the  water,  and  it 

heaves 
And  bubbles  in  the  sedge  ;  while  deep 

and  wide 
The  dim  night  settles  on  the  countiy 

side. 

I  know  this  scene  by  heart.     O !  once 

before 
I  saw  the  seven  stars  float  to  and  fro, 
And  stayed  my  hurried  footsteps  by  the 

shore 
To  mark  the  starry   picture   spread 

below : 
Its  silence  made  the  tumult  in  my  breast 
More  audible  ;  its  peace  revealed  my 

own  unrest. 

I  paused,  then  hurried  on ;  my  heart 

beat  quick ; 
I  crossed  the  bridges,  reached  the 

steep  ascent. 
And  climbed  through  matted  fern  and 

hazels  thick; 
Then  darkling  through  the  close  green 

maples  went. 
And  saw  — there   felt  love's   keenest 

pangs  begin  — 
An  oriel  window  lighted  from  within : 


I  saw  —  and  felt  that  they  were  scarcely 
cares 
Which  I  Iiad  known  before.    I  drew 
more  near. 

And  OI  methought  how  sore  it  frets 
and  wears 
The  soul  to  part  with  that  it  holds  so 
dear: 

'Tis  hard  two  woven  tendrils  to  un- 
twine. 

And  I  was  come  to  part  with  Eglantine. 


For  life  was  bitter  through  those  words 
repressed. 
And  youtli  was   burdened  with  un- 
spoken vows ; 


82 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


iove  unrequited  brooded  in  my  breast, 
And  shrank,  at  glance,  from  the  be- 
loved browi ; 

And  three  long  raontJis,  heart-sick,  my 
foot  wiihdrHWTi, 

I  had  not  sought  her  side  by  rivulet, 
copse,  or  lawn  — 

Not  sought  her  side,  yet  busy  thought 

no  less 
Still  followed  in  her  wake,  though  far 

behind ; 
And  I,  being  parted  from  her  loveliness, 
Looked  at  the  picture  of  her  in  ray 

mind: 
I  lived  alone,  I  walked  with  soul  op- 

prest, 
And  ever  sighed  for  her,  and  sighed  for 

rest 

Then  I  had  risen  to  struggle  with  my 

heart, 
And  said:    "O  heart!  the   world  is 

fresh  and  fair, 
And  I  am  young  ;  but  this  thy  restless 

smart 
Changes  to   bitterness  the  morning 

air: 
I  will,    I   must,   these   weary  fetters 

break  — 
I  will  be  free,  if  only  for  her  sake. 

"  O  let  me  trouble  her  no  more  with 

sighs ! 
Heart-healing  comes  by  distance  and 

with  time : 
Then  let  me  wander,  and  enrich  mine 

eyes 
With  the  green  forests  of  a  softer 

clime, 
Or  list  by  night  at  sea  the  wind's  low 

stave 
And  long  monotonous  rockings  of  the 

wave. 

"  Through  open  solitudes,  imbounded 
meads. 
Where,  wading  on  breast-high  in  yel- 
low boom, 
Untamed  of  man,  the  shy  white  llama 
feeds  — 
There  would  I  jouniey  and  forget  my 
doom ; 


Or  far,  O  far  as  sunrise  T  would  see 
The  level   prairie    stretch   away   from 
me! 

"Or  I  would  sail  upon  the  tropic  seas. 
Where  fathom   long  the    blood-red 

dulses  grow, 
Droop  from  the  rock  and  waver  in  the 

breeze. 
Lashing  the  tide  to  foam ;  while  calm 

below 
The  muddy  mandrakes  throng  those 

waters  warm. 
And  purple,  gold,  and  green,  the  living 

blossoms  swann." 

So  of  my  father  I  did  win  consent. 
With  importunities  repeated  long, 

To  make  that  duty  wliich  had  been  my 
bent. 
To  dig  with  strangers  alien  tombs 
among, 

And   bound   to  them  through   desert 
leagues  to  pace. 

Or  track  up  rivers  to  their  starting- 
place. 

For  this  I  had  done  battle  and  had  won. 

But  not  alone  to  tread  Arabian  sands. 

Measure  the  shadows  of  a  soiuheni  sun. 

Or  dig  out  gods  in  the  old  Egyptian 

lands ; 

But  for  the  dream  wherewith  I  thought 

to  cope  — 
The  grief  of  love  unniated  with  love's 
hope. 

And  now  T  would  set  reason  in  array, 
Methought,  and   fight   for  freedom 

manfully, 
Till  by  long  absence  there  would  come 

a  day 
When  this  my  love  would  not  be  pain 

to  nie ; 
But  if  1  knew  my  rosebud  fair  and  blest 
I  should  not  pnie  to  wear  it  on  my 

breast. 

The  davs  fled  on  ;  another  week  should 
fling 
A  foreign  shadow  on  my  lengthening 
way ; 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


83 


Another  weel?,  yet  nearness  did  not 

bring 
A  braver  heart  that  hard  faiewell  to 

say. 
I  let  the  last  day  wane,  the  dusk  begin, 
Ere   I  had  sought  that  window  lighted 

from  within. 

Sinking  and  sinking,  O  my  heart!  my 

heart ! 
Will  absence  heal  thee  whom  its 

shade  doth  rend? 
I  reached  the  little  gate,  and  soft  within 
The  oriel  fell  her  shadow.     She  did 

lend 
Her  loveliness  to  me,  and  let  me  share 
The  listless  sweetness  of  those  features 

fair. 

Among  thick  laurels   in  the  gathering 
gloom, 
Heavy  for   this   our  parting,    I   did 
stand  ; 

Beside  her  mother  in  the  lighted  room, 
She   sitting  leaned  her  cheek  upon 
her  hand ; 

And  as  she  read,  her  sweet  voice,  float- 
ing through 

The  open  casement,   seemed  to  mourn 
me  an  adieu. 

Youth  !  youth !  how    buoyant  are  thy 

hopes !   they  turn. 
Like  marigolds,   toward  the  sunny 

side. 
My  hopes  were  buried  in  a  funeral 

urn. 
And  they  sprang  up  like  plants  and 

spread  them  wide ; 
Though   I  had  schooled  and  reasoned 

them  away. 
They  gathered  smiling  near  and  prayed 

a  holiday. 

Ah,  sweetest  voice !  how  pensive  were 
its  tones, 
And  how  regretful  its  unconscious 
pause '. 
"  Is  it  for  me  her  heart  this  sadness 
owns. 
And  is  our  parting  of  to-night  the 
cause  ? 


Ah,  would  it  might  be  so!  "  I  thought, 
and  stood 

Listening  entranced  among  the  under- 
wood. 

I  thought  it  would  be  something  worth 

the  pain 
Of  parting,  to  look  once  in  those  deep 

eyes. 
And  take  from  them  an  answering  look 

again. 
"  When  eastern  palms,"   I  thought, 

"  about  me  rise. 
If  I  might  carve  our  names  upon  the 

rind, 
Betrothed,  I  would  not  mourn,  though 

leaving  thee  behind." 

I  can  be  patient,  faithful,  and  most  fond 
To  unacknowledged  love ;  I  can  be 

true 
To  this  sweet  thraldom,  this  unequal 

bond, 
This  yoke  of  mine  that  reaches  not 

to  you  : 
O,  how  much  more  could  costly  parting 

buy  — 
If  not  a  pledge,  one  kiss,  or,  failing  that, 

a  sigh  ! 

I  listened,  and  she  ceased  to  read ;  she 
turned 
Her  face  toward  the  laurels  where  I 
stood  : 

Her  mother  spoke  —  O  wonder !  hardly 
learned ; 
She  said,   "  There  is  a  rustling  in  the 
wood  ; 

Ah,  child !  if  one  draw  near  to  bid  fare- 
well, 

Let  not  thine  eyes  an  unsought  secret 
tell. 

"  My  daughter,  there  is  nothing  held  so 

dear 
As  love,  if  only  it  be  hard  to  win. 
The  roses  that  in  yonder  hedge  appear 
Outdo  our  garden-buds  which  bloom 

within  ; 
But  since  the  hand   may  pluck  them 

every  day, 
Unmarked  they  bud,  bloom,  drop,  and 

drift  away. 


S4 


THE   FOUR  BRIDGES. 


"  My  daughter,  my  beloved,    be  not 
you 
Like  those  same  roses."    O  bewilder- 
ing word ! 

My  heart  stood  still,  a  mist  obscured 
my  view  : 
It  cleared  ;  still  silence.     No  denial 
stirred 

The  lips  beloved  ;  but  straight,  as  one 
opprest, 

She,  kneeling,  dropped  her  face  upon 
her  mother's  breast. 

This  said,   "  My   daughter,  sorrow 

comes  to  all  ; 
Our  life  is  checked  with  shadows 

manifold: 
But  woman  has  this  more  —  she  may 

not  call 
Her  sorrow  by  its  name.     Yet  love 

not  told, 
And  only  born  of  absence   and  by 

thought, 
With  thought  and  absence  may  return 

to  nought." 

And  my  beloved  lifted  up  her  face. 
And  moved  her  lips  as  if  about  to 

speak  ; 
She  dropped  her  lashes  with  a  girlish 

grace, 
And  the  rich  damask  mantled  in  her 

cheek  : 
I  stood  awaiting  till  she  should  deny 
Her  love,  or  with  sweet  laughter  put  it 

by. 

But,  closer  nestling  to  her  mother's 

heart, 
She,  blushing,  said  no  word  to  break 

my  trance. 
For  I  was  breathless ;  and,   with  lips 

apart, 
Felt  my  breast  pant  and  all  my  pulses 

dance. 
And  strove  to  move,  but  could  not  for 

the  weight 
Of  unbelieving  joy,  so  sudden  and  so 

great, 

Because  she  loved  me.     With  a  mighty 
sigh 
Breaking  away,   I  left  her  on  her 
knees, 


And  blest  the  laurel  bower,  the  dark- 
ened sky. 
The  sultry  night  of  August.    Through 
the  trees, 

Giddy  with  gladness,  to   the  porch   I 
went. 

And  hardly  found  the  way  for  joyful 
wonderment. 

Yet,  when  I  entered,  saw  her  mother 
sit 
With   both    hands  cherishing  the 
gi-aceful  head. 

Smoothing  the  clustered  hair,  and  part- 
ing it 
From  the  fair  brow  ;  she,  rising,  only 
said. 

In  the  accustomed  tone,  the  accustomed 
word. 

The  careless  greeting  that  I  always 
heard ; 

And  she  resumed  hermerrj-,  mocking 
smile. 
Though  tear-drops  on  the  glistening 
lashes  hung. 

O  woman  !   thou  wert  fashioned  to  be- 
guile ; 
So  have  all  sages  said,  all  poets  sung. 

She  spoke  of  favoring  winds  and  wait- 
ing ships, 

With  smiles  of  gratulation  on  her  lips! 

And  then  she  looked  and  faltered :  I 

had  grown 
So  suddenly  in  life  and  sovil  a  man  : 
She  moved  her  lips,  but  could  not  find 

a  tone 
To  set  her  mocking  music  to ;  began 
One  struggle  for  dominion,  raised  her 

eyes, 
And  straight  withdrew  them,  bashful 

through  surprise. 

The    color  over   cheek  and  bosom 
flushed; 
I  might  have  heard  the  beating  of  her 
heart. 
But  that  mine  own  beat  louder  ;  when 
she  blushed. 
The  hand  within  mine  own  I  felt  to 
start, 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


8S 


But  would  not  change  my  pitiless  de- 
cree 

To  strive  with  her  for  might  and  mas- 
tery. 


She  looked  again,  as  one  that,  half 
afraid, 
Would  fain  be  certain  of  a  doubtful 
thing; 

Or  one  beseeching,  "  Do  not  me  up- 
braid !  " 
And  then  she  trembled  like  the  flut- 
tering 

Of  timid  little  birds,  and  silent  stood, 

No  smile  wherewith  to  mock  my  hardi- 
hood. 


She  turned,  and  to  an  open  casement 

moved 
With  girlish  shyness,  mute  beneath 

my  gaze. 
And  I  on  downcast  lashes  unreproved 
Could  look  as  long  as  pleased  me  ; 

while,  th>-  rays 
Of  moonlight  round  her,  she  her  fair 

head  bent, 
In  modest  silence  to  my  words  attent. 

How  fast  the  giddy  whirling  moments 
flew ! 
The   moon  had   set ;    I   heard   the 
midnight  chime  ; 

Hope  is  more  brave  than  fear,  and  joy 
than  dread. 
And  I  could  wait  unmoved  the  part- 
ing time. 

It  came  ;  for  by  a  sudden  impulse  drawn. 

She,  risen,  stepped  out  upon  the  dusky 
lawn. 

A  little  waxen  taper  in  her  hand. 

Her  feet  upon  the  dry  and  dewless 

grass. 
She  looked  like   one  of   the   celestial 

band. 
Only  that  on  her  cheeks  did  dawn 

and  pass 
Most  luunan  blushes;  while,  the  soft 

light  thrown 
On  vesture  ))ureand  white,  she  seemed 

yet  fairer  grown. 


Her  mother,  looking  out  toward  her, 
sighed. 
Then  gave  her  hand  in  token  of  fare- 
well. 

And  with  her  warning  eyes,  that  seemed 
to  chide. 
Scarce  suffered  that  I  sought  her 
child  to  tell 

The  story  of  my  life,  whose  every  line 

No  other  burden   bore  than  —  Eglan- 
tine. 

Black   thunder-clouds  were  rising  up 

behind. 
The  waxen  taper  burned  full  steadily  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  dark  midnight  had  a 

mind 
To  hear  what  lovers  say,  and  her 

decree 
Had   passed   for   silence,   while   she, 

dropped  to  ground 
With  raiment  floating  wide,  drank   in 

the  sound. 

O  happiness!  thou  dost  not  leave  a 
trace 
So  well  defined  as  sorrow.     Amber 
light. 

Shed  like  a  glory,  on  her  angel  face, 
I  can  remember  fully,  and  the  sight 

Of  her  fair  forehead  and  her  shiuing 
eyes. 

And  lips  that  smiled  in  sweet  and  girl- 
ish wise. 


I  can  remember  how  the  taper  played 
Over  her  small  hands  and  her  vest- 
ure white  ; 

How  it  struck  up  into  the  trees,  and  laid 
Upon  their  under  leaves   unwonted 
light ; 

And  when  she  held  it  low,  how  far  it 
spread 

O'er  velvet  pansies  slumbering  on  their 
bed. 

I  can  remember  that  we  spoke  full  low, 
That  neither  doubted  of  the  other's 
truth  ; 
And  that  with   footsteps  slower  and 
more  slow, 
Hands  folded  close  for  love,  eyes  wet 
for  ruth : 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


Beneath  the  trees,  by  that  clear  taper's 

fianie, 
We  wandered  till  the  gate  of  parting 

came. 

But  I  forget  the  parting  words  she  said, 
So  much  they  thrilled  the  all-atten- 
tive soul  ; 

For  one  short  moment  human  heart  and 
head 
May  bear  such  bliss  —  its  present  is 
the  whole : 

I  had  that  present,  till  in  whispers  fell 

With  parting  gesture  her  subdued  fare- 
well. 

"Farewell  !"  she  said,  in  act  to  turn 

away. 
But  stood  a  moment  still  to  dry  her 

tears. 
And  suffered  my  enfolding  arm  to  stay 
The  time  of  her   departure.     O  ye 

years 
That  intervene  betwixt  that   day  and 

this ! 
You  all   received  your  hue  from  that 

keen  pain  and  bliss. 

O  mingled  pain  and  bliss!     O  pain  to 
break 
At  once  from  happiness  so  lately 
found. 

And  four  long  years  to  feel  for  her  sweet 
sake 
The  incompleteness  of  all  sight  and 
sound ! 

But  bliss  to  cross  once  more  the  foam- 
ing brine  — 

0  bliss  to  come  again  and  make  her 

mine. 

1  cannot  —  O,  I  cannot  more  recall ! 
But    I   will   soothe   my   troubled 

tlioughts  to  rest 
With  musing  over  journeyings  wide, 

and  all 
Observance  of  this  active-humored 

west. 
And  swarming  cities  steeped  in  eastern 

day, 
With  swarthy  tribes  in  gold  and  striped 

array. 


I  turn  from  these,  and  straight  there 

will  succeed 
(Shifting  and  changing  at  the  restless 

will), 
Imbedded  in  some  deep  Circassian 

mead. 
White  wagon-tilts,  and  flocks  that  eat 

their  fill 
Unseen  above,  while  comely  shepherds 

pass. 
And  scarcely  show  their  heads  above 

the  grass. 

—  The  red  Sahara  in  an  angry  glow. 
With  amber  fogs,  across  its  hollows 

trailed 
Long  strings  of  camels,  gloomy-eyed 

and  slow, 
And  women  on  their  necks,   from 

gazers  veiled, 
And  sun-swart  guides  who  toil  across 

the  sand 
To  groves  of  date-trees  on  the  watered 

land. 

Again  —  the  brown   sails  of  an  Arab 

boat, 
Flapping  by  night  upon  a  glassy  sea, 
Whereon  the  moon  and  planets  seem 

to  float. 
More  bright  of  hue  than  they  were 

wont  to  be, 
While  shooting-stars  rain  down  with 

crackling  sound. 
And,  thick  as  swarming  locusts,  drop 

to  ground. 

Or  far  into  the  heat  among  the  sands 
The  gembok  nations,  snuffing  up  the 
wind, 
Drawn  by  the  scent  of  water —  and  the 
bands 
Of  tawny-bearded  lions  pacing,  blind 
With  the  sun-dazzle  'in  their  midst,  op- 

prest 
With  prey,  and  spiritless  for  lack  of  rest ! 

What  more  ?     Old  Lebanon,  the  frosty- 
browed. 
Setting  his  feet  among  oil-olive  trees, 
Heaving   his  bare    brown   shoulder 
through  a  cloud  ; 
And  after,  grassy  Carmel,   purple 
seas, 


THE   FOUR  BRIDGES. 


87 


Flattering  his  dreams  and  echoing  in 

his  rocks, 
Soft  as  the  bleating  of  his  thousand 

flocks. 


Enough :  how  vain  this  thinking  to 

beguile, 
With  recollected  scenes,  an  aching 

breast ! 
Did  not  I,  journeying,  muse  on  her  the 

while? 
Ah,  yes  !  for  every  landscape  comes 

impressed  — 
Ay,  written  on,  as  by  an  iron  pen  — 
With  the  same  thought  I  nursed  about 

her  then. 


Therefore    let   memory  turn    again   to 
home  ; 
Feel,  as   of  old,  the  joy  of  drawing 
near ; 

Watch  the  green  breakers  and  the  wind- 
tossed  foam. 
And  see  the  land-fog  break,  dissolve, 
and  clear  ; 

Then  think  a  skylark's  voice  far  sweeter 
sound 

Than  ever  thrilled  but  over  English 
ground  ; 

And  walk,  glad,  even  to  tears,  among 
the  wheat, 
Not  doubting  this  to  be  the  first  of 
lands; 

And,  while  in  foreign  words  this  mur- 
muring, meet 
Some  little  village  school-girls  (with 
their  hands 

Full  of  forget-me-nots),  who,  greeting 
me, 

I  count  their  English  talk  delightsome 
melody  ; 

And  seat  me  on  a  bank,  and  draw  them 
near. 
That   I  may  feast  myself  with  hear- 
ing it. 
Till   sliortly  they  forget  their  bashful 
fear. 
Push  back  their  flaxen   curls,    and 
round  me  sit  — 


Tell  me  their  names,  their  daily  tasks, 

and  show 
Where  wild  wood  strawberries  in  the 

copses  grow. 


So  passed  the  day  in  this  delightsome 
land  4 
My  heart  was  thankful  for  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  — 

For  English  sky  with  feathery  cloudlets 
spanned  — 
For  English  hedge  with   glistening 
dewdrops  himg. 

I  journeyed,  and  at  glowing  eventide 

Stopped  at  a  rustic  inn  by  the  wayside. 


That  night  I  slumbered  sweetly,  being 
right  glad 
To  miss  tlie  flapping  of  the  shrouds  ; 
but  lo! 

A  quiet  dream  of  beings  twain  I  had, 
Behind  the  curtain  talking  soft  and 
low: 

Methought  I  did  not  heed  their  utter- 
ance fine, 

Till  one  of  them  said  softly,  "  Eglan- 
tine." 


I  started  up  awake,  'twas  silence  all : 
My  own  fond  heart  had  shaped  that 
utterance  clear ; 

And  "  Ah!  "  methouglit,  "howsweetly 
did  it  fall. 
Though  but  in  dream,  upon  the  listen- 
ing ear! 

How  sweet  from  other  lips  the  name 
well  known  — 

That  name,  so  many  a  year  heard  only 
from  mine  own !  " 


I  thought  awhile,  then  slumber  c^ine  to 

me. 
And  tangled  all  my  fancy  in  her  mazg, 
And  I  was  drifting  on  a  raft  at  sea, 
The  near  all  ocean,  and  the  far  all 

haze ; 
Through   the  white   polished  water 

sharks  did  glide. 
And  up  in  heaven  1  saw  no  stars  to 

guide. 


88 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


"  Have  mercy,  God  ! "  but  lo !  my  raft 

uprose  ; 
Drip,  drip,  I  heard  the  water  splash 

from  it ; 
My  raft  had  wings,  and  as  the  petrel 

goes, 
It  skimmed  the  sea,  then  brooding 

seemed  to  sit 
The  milk-wh.te  mirror,  till,  with  sudden 

spring. 
It  flew  stra.ght  upward  like  a  living 

thing. 

But  strange  !  —  I  went  not  also  in  that 

flight, 
For  1  was  entering  at  a  cavern's 

mouth  ; 
Trees  grew  within,  and  screaming  birds 

of  night 
Sat  on  them,  hiding  from  the  torrid 

south. 
On,  on  I  went,  while  gleaming  in  the 

dark 
Those  trees  with  blanched  leaves  stood 

pale  and  stark. 

The  trees  had  flower-buds,  nourished 
in  deep  uight. 
And  suddenly,  as  I  went  farther  in. 

They  opened,  and  they  shot  out  lam- 
bent light ; 
Then  all  at  once  arose  a  railing  din 

That  frighted  me  :   "  It  is  the  ghosts," 
I  said, 

"  And  they  are  railing  for  their  darkness 
fled. 

"  I  hope  they  will  not  look  me  in  the 

face ; 
It  frighteth  me  to  hear  their  laughter 

loud  ; " 
I  saw  them  troop  before  with  jaunty 

pace. 
And  one  would  shake  ofiE  dust  that 

soiled  her  shroud: 
But  now,  O  joy  unhoped !  to  calm  my 

dread, 
Some  moonlight  filtered  through  a  cleft 

o'erhead. 

I  climbed  the  lofty  trees  —  the  blanched 
trees  — 
The  cleft  was  wide  enough  to  let  me 
through  ; 


I   clambered   out  and  felt  the  balmy 
breeze, 
And  stepped  on  churchyard  grasses 
wet  with  dew. 

0  happy  chance  !   O  fortune  to  admire  ! 

1  stood  beside  my  own  loved  vil.age 

spire. 

And  as  I  gazed  upon   the   yew-tree's 

trunk, 
Lo,  far-off  music  —  music  in  thenight ! 
So  sweet  and  tender  as  it  swelled  and 

sunk  ; 
It  charmed  me  till  I  wept  with  keen 

delight. 
And  in  my  dream,  methought  as  it  drew 

near 
The  very  clouds  in  heaven  stooped  low 

to  hear. 

Beat  high,   beat  low,   wild  heart   so 

deeply  stirred. 
For  high  as  heaven  runs   up  the 

piercing  strain  ; 
The  restless  music  fluttering  like  a  bird 
Bemoaned  herself,  and  dropped  to 

earth  again, 
Heaping  up  sweetness  till  I  was  afraid 
That   I  should  die  of  grief  when  it  did 

fade. 

And  it  DID  fade  ;  but  while  with  ea^er 

ear 

I  drank  its  last  long  echo  dying  away, 

I  was  aware  of  footsteps  that  drew  near, 

And  round  the  ivied  chancel  seemjd 

to  stray  : 

O,  soft  above  the  hallowed  place  they 

trod  — 
Soft  as  the  fall  of  foot  that  is  not  shod ! 

I  turned  —  'twas  even  so —  yes,  Eglan- 
tine ! 
For  at  the  first  I  had  divined  the 
same ; 

I  saw  the  moon  on  her  shut  eyelids 
shine, 
And  said,  "  Slie  is  asleep:  "  still  on 
she  came  ; 

Then,   on  her  dimpled  feet,   I  saw  it 
gleam. 

And   thought,  "  I  know    that    this  is 
but  a  dream.'' 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


89 


Mv  darling !  O  my  darling !  not  the  less 
My  dream  went  on  because  1  knew 
it  such : 

She  came  towards  me   in  her  loveli- 
ness— 
A  thing  too   pure,  methought,   for 
mortal  touch ; 

The  rippling  gold  did  on  her  bosom 
meet, 

The  long  white  robe  descended  to  her 
feet. 

The  fringed  lids  dropped  low,  as  sleep- 
oppressed  ; 
Her  dreamy  smile  was  very  fair  to  see, 

And  her  two  hands  were  folded  to  her 
breast. 
With  somewhat  held  between  them 
heedfully. 

O  fast  asleep  !  and  yet  methought  shs 
knew 

And  fe.t  my  nearness  those  shut  eyelids 
through. 

She  sighed  :  my  tears  ran  down  for 
tenderness  — 
"  And  have  I  drawn  thee  to  me  in 
my  sleep  ? 
Is  it  for  me  thou  wanderest  shelterless, 
Wetting  thy  steps  in  dewy  grasses 
deep? 

0  if  this  be !  "  I  said —  "yet  speak  to 

me ; 

1  blame  my  very  dream  for  cruelty." 

Then  from  her  stainless  bosom  she  did 

take 
Two  beauteous  lily  flowers  that  lay 

therein. 
And  with   slow-moving  lips  a  gesture 

make, 
As  one  that  some  forgotten  words 

doth  win: 
"  They  floated  on  the  pool,"  methought 

she  said, 
And  water  trickled  from  each  lily's 

head. 

It  dropped  upon  her  feet  —  I  saw  it 
gleam 
Along  the  ripples  of  her  yellow  hair. 
And  stood  apart,  for  only  in  a  dre:\m 
She  would  have  come,  methought,  to 
meet  me  there. 


She  spoke  again  —  "  Ah  fair !  ah  fresh 

they  shine ! 
And  there  are  many  left,  and  these  are 

mine." 

I  answered  her  with  flattering  accents 

meet  — 
"  Love,   they  are  whitest  lilies  e'er 

were  blown." 
"  And  sayest  thou  so  ?  "  she  sighed  in 

murnmrs  sweet ; 
"  I  have  nought  else  to  give  thee  now, 

mine  own ! 
For  it  is   night.     Then  take   them, 

love  !  "  said  she  : 
"  They  have  been  costly  flowers  to  thee 

—  and  me." 

While  thus  she  said  I  took  them  from 
h^r  hand. 
And,  overcome  with  love  and  near- 
ness, woke  ; 

And  overcome  with  ruth  that  she  should 
stand 
Barefooted  on  the  grass ;  that,  when 
she  spoke, 

H^r  mystic  words  should  take  so  sweejt 
a  tone. 

And  of  all  names  her  lips  should  choose 
"My  own." 

I  rose,  I  journeyed,  neared  my  home, 

and  soon 
Beheld  the  spire  peer  out  above  the 

hill : 
It  was  a  sunny  harvest  afternoon, 
When   by   the   churchyard  wicket, 

standing  still, 
I  cast  my  eager  eyes  abroad  to  know 
If  change  had  touched  the  scenes  of 

long  ago. 

I  looked  across  the  hollow ;  sunbeams 
shone 
Upon  the  old  house  with  the  gable- 
ends  : 

"  Save  that  the  laurel-trees  are  taller 
grown, 
No  change,"  methought,  "  to  its  grey 
w.ill  extends. 

What  clear  bright  beams  on  yonder  lat- 
tice shine ! 

There  did  1  sometime  talk  with  Eglan- 
tine.' 


90      MOTHER  SHOWING  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  HER  CHILD. 


There  standing  with  my  very  goal  in 
sight, 
Over  my  haste  did  sudden  quiet  steal ; 

I  thought  to  dally  with  my  o\vn   de- 
light. 
Nor  rush  on  headlong  to  my  garnered 
weal, 

But  taste  the  sweetness  of  a  short  delay, 

And  for  a  little  moment  hold  the  bliss 
at  bay. 

Tlie  church  was  open ;  it  perchance 

might  be 
That  there  to  ofiFer  thanks  I  might 

essay. 
Or  rather,  as  I  think,  that  I  might  see 
The  place  where  Eglantine  was  wont 

to  pray. 
But  so  it  was ;    I  crossed  that  portal 

wide. 
And  felt  my  riot  joy  to  calm  subside. 

The  low  depending  curtains,   gently 

swayed. 
Cast  over  arch  and  roof  a  crimson 

glow ; 
But,  ne'ertheless,   all   silence   and  all 

shade 
It  seemed,  save  only  for  the  rippling 

flow 
Of  their  long  foldings,  when  the  sunset 

air 
Sighed  through  the  casements  of  the 

house  of  prayer. 

I  found  her  place,  the  ancient  oaken 

stall, 
Where  in  her  childhood  I  had  seen 

her  sit. 
Most  saint-like  and  most  tranquil  there 

of  all. 
Folding  her  hands,  as  if  a  dreaming 

fit  — 
A    heavenly    vision    had    before    her 

strayed 
Of  the  Eternal  Child  in  lowly  manger 

laid. 


I  saw  her  prayer-book  laid  upon  the 
seat, 
And  took  it  in  my  hand,   and  felt 
more  near 


In  fancy  to  her,  finding  it  most  sweet 
To  think  how  very  oft,  low  kneeling 

here, 
In  her  devout  thoughts  she  had  let  me 

share, 
And  set  my  graceless  name  in  her  pure 

prayer. 

My  eyes  were  dazzled  with  delightful  ' 

tears  — 
In  sooth  they  were  the  last  I  ever 

shed ; 
For  with  them  fell  the  cherished  dreams 

of  years. 
I  looked,  and  on  the  wall  above  my 

head, 
Over    her    seat,    there    was    a    tablet 

placed. 
With   one  word    only   on   the   marble 

traced.  — 

Ah,  well!    I   would  not  overstate  that 

woe. 
For  I  have  had  some  blessings,  little 

care  ; 
But  since  the  falling  of  that  hea\'y  blow, 
God' s  earth  has  never  seemed  to  me 

so  fair ; 
Nor  any  of  His  creatures  so  divine, 
Nor  sleep  so  sweet :  —  the  word  was  — 

Eglantine. 


A     MOTHER    SHOWING     THE 
PORTRAIT  OF  HER  CHILD. 

(f.  m.  l.) 

Living  Child  or  pictured  cherub 
Ne'er  o'ermatched  its  baby  giace  ; 

And  the  mother,  moving  nearer, 
Looked  it  calmly  in  the  face  ; 

Then  with  slight  and  quiet  gesture. 
And  with  lips  that  scarcely  smiled, 

Said,   "  A  Portrait  of  my  daughter 
When  she  was  a  chLd." 

Easy  thought  was  hers  to  fathom, 
Nothing  hard  her  glance  to  read, 

For  it  seemed  to  say,  "  No  praises 
For  this  little  child  I  need : 


MOTHER  SHOWING  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  HER  CHILD.      gi 


If  you  see,  I  see  far  better, 

And  1  will  not  feign  to  care 
For  a  stranger's  prompt  assurance 
That  the  face  is  fair." 


Softly  clasped  and  half  extended, 
She  her  dimpled  hands  doth  lay: 

So  they  doubtless  placed  them,  saying, 
"  Little  one,  you  must  not  play." 

And  whie  yet  his  worl<  was  growing, 
This  the  painter's  hand  haih  shown, 

That  the  little  heart  was  making 
Pictures  of  its  own. 

Is  it  warm  in  that  green  valley, 

Vale  of  childhood,  where  yim  dwell? 
Is  it  calm  in  that  green  valley, 

Round    whose     bourns    such    great 
hills  swell? 
Are  there  giants  in  the  valley  — 
Giants  leaving  footprints  yet? 
Are  there  angels  in  the  valley? 
Tell  me  —  I  forget. 

Answer,  answer,  for  the  lilies. 
Little  one,  o'ertop  yon  much, 

And  the  mealy  gold  within  them 
You  can  scarcely  reacli  to  touch ; 

O  how  far  their  aspect  differs. 
Looking  up  and  looking  down ! 

You  look  up  in  that  green  valley  — 
Valley  of  renown. 

Are  there  voices  in  the  valley, 
Lying  near  the  heavenly  gate? 

When  it  opens,  do  the  harp-strings. 
Touched  within,  reverberate? 

When,  like  shooting-stars,  the  angels 
To  your  conch  at  nightfall  go. 

Are  their  swift  wings  heard  to  rustle? 
Tell  me !  for  you  know. 


Yes,  you  know ;  and  you  are  silent. 
Not  a  word  shall  asking  win  ; 

Little  mouth  more  sweet  than  rosebud, 
Fast  it  locks  the  secret  in. 

Not  a  glimpse  upon  your  jjresent 
You  unfold  to  glad  my  view  ; 

Ah,  what  secrets  of  your  future 
I  could  tell  to  you! 


Sunny  present !  thus  I  re.id  it. 
By  remembrance  of  my  past :  — 

Its  to-day  and  its  to-morrow 
Are  as  lifetimes  vague  and  vast ; 

And  each  face  in  that  green  val.ey 
Takes  for  you  an  aspect  mild. 

And  each  voice  grows  soft  in  saying, 
"  Kiss  me,  little  child!  " 

As  a  boon  the  kiss  is  granted : 
Baby  mouth,  your  touch  is  sweet. 

Takes  the  love  without  the  trouble 
From  those  lips  that  with  it  meet ; 

Gives  the  love,  O  pure!  O  tender! 
Of  the  valley  where  it  grows. 

But  the  baby  heart  receiveth 
More  than  it  bestows. 

Comes  the  future  to  the  present  — 
"Ah!"    she  saith,    "too  blithe  of 
mood ; 
Why  that  smile  which  seems  to  whis- 
per— 
'  I  am  happy,  God  is  good?' 
God  is  good  :  that  truth  eternal 

Sown  for  you  in  hapjjier  years, 
I  must  tend  it  in  my  shadow. 
Water  it  with  tears. 

"  Ah,  sweet  present!  I  must  lead  thee 

By  a  daylight  more  subdued  ; 
There  must  teach  thee  low  to  whis- 
per— 
'  I  am  mournful,  God  is  good ! '  " 
Peace,  thou  future!  clouds  are  coming, 

Stooping  from  the  mountain  crest, 
But  that  sunshine  floods  the  valley : 
Let  her  —  let  her  rest. 

Comes  the  future  to  the  present  — 
"  Child,"  she  saith,      and  wilt  thou 
rest? 
How  long,  child,  before  thy  footsteps 

Fret  to  reach  yon  cloudy  crest  ? 
Ah,  the  valley!  — angels  guard  it. 

But  the  heights  are  brave  to  see  ; 
Looking  down  were  long  contentment: 
Come  up,  child,  to  me." 

So  she  speaks,  but  do  not  heed  her, 
I^ittle  maid  with  wondrous  eyes. 

Not  afraid,  but  clear  and  tender. 
Blue,  and  tilled  with  prophecies ; 


Q2 


STRIFE  AND  PEACE. 


Tliou  for  whom  life's  veil  iinlifted 

Hangs,  wliom  warmest  valleys  fold, 
Lift  tile  veil,  the  charm  dissolveth^ 
Climb,  but  heights  are  cold. 


There  are  buds  that  fold  within  them, 
Closed  and  covered  from  our  sight, 

Ma  ly  a  riclily-tinted  petal. 
Never  looked  on  by  the  light ; 

Fain  to  see  their  shrouded  faces, 
Siin  and  dew  are  long  at  strife. 

Till  at  length  the  sweet  buds  open  — 
Such  a  bud  is  life. 


When  the  rose  of  thine  own  being 
Shall  reveal  its  central  fold, 

Thou  shalt  look  within  and  marvel. 
Fearing  what  thine  eyes  bsliold  ; 

What  it  shows  and  what  it  teaclies 
Are  not  things  wherewith  to  part ; 

Thorny  rose  !  that  always  costeth 
Beatings  at  the  heart. 


Look  in  fear,  for  there  is  dimness ; 

Ills  unshapen  float  anigh. 
Look  in  awe  :  for  tliis  same  nature 

Once  the  Godliead  deigned  to  die. 
Look  in  love,  for  He  doth  love  it, 

And  its  tale  is  best  of  lore : 
Still  humanity  grows  dearer. 
Being  learned  the  more. 


Learn,  but  not  the  less  bethink  thee 
How  that  all  can  mingle  tears  ; 

But  his  joy  can  none  discover. 
Save  to  them  that  are  his  peers  ; 

And  that  they  whose  lips  do  utter 
Language  such  as  bards  have  sung- 

Lo !  their  speech  shall  be  to  many 
As  an  unknown  tongue. 


Learn,  that  if  to  thee  the  meaning 
Of  all  olher  eyes  be  sliown. 

Fewer  eyes  can  ever  front  thee, 
That  are  skilled  to  read  thine  own ; 

And  that  if  thy  love's  deep  current 
Many  another's  far  outflows, 

Then  thy  heart  must  take  for  ever 
Less  than  it  isestows. 


STRIFE   AND   PEACE. 

Written  for  The  Portfolio  Society, 
October,  i86i. 

The  yellow  poplar  leaves  came  down 

And  like  a  carpet  lay. 
No  waftings  were  in  the  sunny  air 

To  flutter  them  away  ; 
And   he   stepped   on   blithe   and   deb- 
onair 

That  warm  October  day. 

"The  boy,"  saith  he,   "hath  got  his 
own, 
But  sore  has  been  the  fight, 
For  ere  his  life  began  the  strife 
That  ceased  but  yesternight ; 
For  the  will,"  he  said,  "  the  kinsfolk 
read. 
And  read  it  not  aright. 

"  His  cause  was  argued  in  the  court 

Before  his  christening  day  ; 
And  counsel  was  heard,  and  judge  de- 
murred, 

And  bitter  waxed  the  fray  ; 
Brother  with  brother  spake  no  word 

When  they  met  in  the  way. 

"Against  each  one  did  each  contend. 

And  all  against  the  heir. 
I  would  not  bend,  for  I  knew  the  end  — 

I  have  it  for  my  share. 
And  nought  repent,    though   my   first 
friend 

From  henceforth  I  must  spare. 

"  Manor  and  moor  and  farm  and  wo'd 
Their  greed  begrudged  him  sore, 

And   parchments  old   with   passionate 
hold 
Tliey  guarded  heretofore; 

And  tliey  carped  at  signature  and  seal. 
But  they  may  carp  no  more. 

"An  old  affront  will  stir  the  heart 
Tlirough  years  of  rankling  pain  ; 

And  1  feel  the  fret  that  urged  me  yet 
That  warfare  to  maintain  ; 

For  an  enemy's  loss  may  well  be  set 
Above  an  infant's  gain. 


STRIFE  AND  PEACE. 


93 


"An  enemy's  loss  I  go  to  prove ; 

Laugh  out,  thou  little  heir! 
Lau^h  in  his  face  wlio  vowed  to  chase 

Thee  from  thy  birthright  fair  ; 
For  I  come  to  set  thee  in  thy  place : 

Laugh  out,  and  do  not  spare." 


A  man  of  strife,  in  wrathful  mood 
He  neared  the  nurse's  door  ; 

With  poplar  leaves  tlie  roof  and  eaves 
Were  thickly  scattered  o'er, 

And  yellow  as  they  a  sunbeam  lay 
Along  the  cottage  floor. 


"  Sleep  on,  thou  pretty,  pretty  lamb," 
He  hears  the  fond  nurse  say ; 

"  And  if  angels  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 
As  now  belike  they  may. 

And  if  angels  meet  at  thy  bed's  feet, 
1  fear  tliem  not  this  day. 


"Come   wealth,   come   want  to   thee, 
dear  heart, 

It  was  all  one  to  me, 
For  thy  pretty  tongue  far  sweeter  rung 

Than  coined  gold  and  fee  ; 
And  ever  the  while  thy  waking  smile 

It  was  right  fair  to  see. 

"  Sleep,  pretty  bairn,  and  never  know 
Who  grudged  and  who  transgressed  ; 

Thee  to  retain  I  was  full  fain, 
But  God,  He  knoweth  best! 

And  His  peace  upon  thy  brow  lies  plain 
As  the  sunshine  on  thy  breast !  " 

The  man  of  strife,  he  enters  in. 
Looks,  and  his  pride  doth  cease  ; 

Anger  and  sorrow  shall  be  to-morrow 
Trouble,  and  no  release  ; 

But  the   babe  whose   life  awoke    the 
strife 
Hath  entered  into  peace. 


STORY    OF    DOOM, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


A    STORY    OF    DOOM,   AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


3>^0 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME 
TRUE. 

I  SAW   in  a  vision  once,  our  mother- 
sphere 
The    world,    her    fixed    foredoomed 
oval  tracing. 
Rolling    and    rolling    on   and    resting 
never, 
While   like  a  phantom  fell,  behind 
her  pacing 
The  unfurled  flag  of  night,  her  shadow 
drear 
Fled  as  she  fled  and   hung  to  her 
forever. 

Great    Heaven  !     methought,    how 
strange  a  doom  to  share. 
Would  I  may  never  bear 
Inevitable  darkness  after  me 
(Darkness     endowed     with     drawings 
strong. 
And  shadowy  hands  that  cling  un- 
endingly), 
Nor  feel  that  phantom-wings  behind 
me  sweep. 
As  she  feels  night   pursuing   through 
the  long 
Illimitable    reaches  of    "  the    vasty 
deep." 


God  save  you,  gentlefolks.     There  was 

a  man 
Who  lay  awake  at  midnight  on  his 

bed,  Iran 

Watching  the  spiral  flame  that  feeding 


Among  the  logs  upon  his  hearth,  and 
shed 

A  comfortable  glow,  both  warm  and 
dim. 

On  crimson  curtains  that  encom- 
passed him. 

Right  stately  was  his  chamber,   soft 
and  w'hite 
The  pillow,  and  his  quilt  was  eider- 
down. 

What  mattered  it  to  him  through  all 
that  night 
The   desolate   driving    cloud    might 
lower  and  frown. 

And  winds  were  up  the  eddj^ing  sleet 
to  chase. 

That  drave  and  drave  and  found  no 
settling-place  ? 

What  mattered  it  that  leafless  trees 
might  rock, 
Or    snow    might    drift    athwart    his 
window-pane  ? 

He  bare  a  charmed  life  against  their 
shock. 
Secure  from  cold,  hunger,  and  weath- 
er stain ; 

Fixed  in  his  right,  and  born  to  good 
estate. 

From  common  ills  set  by  and  separate. 

From  work  and  want  and  fear  of  want 
apart. 
This  man  (men  called  him   Justice 
Wilvermore)  — 


98 


THE  DREAMS   THAT  CAME   TRUE. 


This  man  had  comforted  his  clieerful 

heart 
With  all  that  it  desired  from  every 

shore. 
He  had  a  riglit,  —  the  right  of  gold  is 

strong,  — 
He  stood  upon  his  right  his  whole  life 

long. 

Custom  makes  all    things    easy,   and 

content 
Is  careless,  therefore  on  the  storm 

and  cold, 
As  he  lay  waking,  never  a  thought  he 

spent. 
Albeit  across  the  vale  beneath  the 

wold. 
Along  a  reedy  mere  that  frozen  lay, 
A   range   of   sordid   hovels    stretched 

away. 

What  cause  had  he  to  think  on  them, 

forsooth  ? 
What  cause  that  night  beyond  another 

night? 
He  was  familiar  even  from  his  youth 
With  their  long  ruin  and  their  evil 

plight. 
The  wintry  wind  would   search  them 

like  a  scout. 
The  water  froze   within   as   freely   as 

without. 

He  think  upon  them  ?     No !     They 

were  forlorn, 
So  were  the  cowering  inmates  whom 

they  held  ; 
A  thriftless  tribe,  to  shifts  and  leanness 

born. 
Ever  complaining:  infancy  or  eld 
Alike.     But  there  was  rent,  or  long  ago 
Those  cottage  roofs  had  met  with  ovei~ 

throw. 

For  this  they  stood ;    and   what    his 
thoughts  might  be 
This  winter  night,  I  know  not ;  but 
I  know 
That,   while  the    creeping    flame    fed 
silently 
And   cast   upon  his  bed  a  crimson 
glow, 


The  Justice  slept,  and  shortly  in  his 

sleep 
He  fell  to  dreaming,  and  his  dream  was 

deep. 

He  dreamed  that  over  him  a  shadow 
came ; 
And   when   he   looked    to   find    the 
cause,  behold 

Some  person  knelt  between  him  and 
the  flame  :  — 
A  cowering  figure  of  one  frail   and 
old,— 

A  woman  ;  and  she  prayed  as  he  de- 
scried. 

And    spread    her    feeble    hands,    and 
shook  and  sighed. 


"  Good   Heaven !  "  the  Justice   cried, 

and  being  distraught 
He  called  not  to  her,  but  he  looked 

again : 
She  wore  a  tattered  cloak,  but  she  had 

naught 
Upon  her  head ;  and  she  did  quake 

amain, 
And  spread  her  wasted  hands  and  poor 

attire 
To  gather  in  the  brightness  of  his  fire. 


"  I  know  you,  woman!  "  then  the  Jus- 
tice cried  ; 
"  I  know  that  woman  well,"  he  cried 
aloud  ; 

"  The    shepherd     Aveland's    widow : 
God  nie  guide! 
A  pauper  kneeling  on  my  hearth : " 
and  bowed 

The  hag,  like  one  at  home,  its  warmth 
to  share ! 

"How  dares  she  to  intrude?      What 
does  she  here  ? 

"  Ho,  woman,  ho !  "  — but  yet  she  did 
not  stir. 
Though  from  her  lips  a  fitful  plaining 
broke  ; 
"  I'll  ring  my  people  up  to  deal  with 
her; 
I'll  rouse  the  house,"  he  cried  ;  but 
while  he  spoke 


THE  DREAMS   THAT  CAME  TRUE. 


99 


He  turned,  and  saw,  but  distant  from 

his  bed, 
Another   form,  —  a   Darkness    with   a 

head. 

Then,  in  a  rage,   he  shouted,  "  Who 
are  you?" 
For  little  in  the  gloom  he  might  dis- 
cern. 

"  Speak  out ;    speak  now ;    or   I   will 
make  you  rue 
The  hour!  "  but  there  was   silence, 
and  a  stern, 

Dark  face  from  out  the  dusk  appeared 
to  lean, 

And  then  again  drew  back,   and  was 
not  seen. 

"God!"     cried    the    dreaming    man, 
right  impiously, 
"What  have  I  done,  that  these  my 
sleep  affray?" 
"  God  !  "  said  the  Phantom,  "  I  appeal 
to  Thee, 
Appoint  Thou  me  this  man  to  be  my 

p''sy-." 

God !  "  sighed  the  kneeling  woman, 
frail  and  old, 
"  I  pray  Thee  take  me,  for  the  world  is 
cold." 

Then  said  the  trembling  Justice,  in  af- 
fright, 
"  Fiend,  I  adjure  thee,  speak  thine 
errand  here!  " 

And  lo!  it  pointed  in  the  failing  light 
Toward  the  woman,  answering,  cold 
and  clear, 

"  Thou  art  ordained  an  answer  to  thy 
prayer ; 

But  first  to  tell  her  tale  that  kneeleth 
there." 

'^ Her  tale  !"  the  Justice  cried.     "A 
pauper's  tale !  " 
And  he  took  heart  at  this  so  low  be- 
hest. 

And  let  the  stoutness  of  his  will  pre- 
vail. 
Demanding,  "  Is't  for /^^r  you  break 
my  rest  ? 

She  went   to  jail  of  late   for  stealing 
wood, 

She  will  again  for  this  night's  liardihood. 


"  I  sent  her ;  and  to-morrow,  as  I  live, 
I   will  commit  her  for  this  trespass 

here." 
''Thou  wilt  not!"  quoth  the  Shadow, 

"  thou  wilt  give 
Her    story    words ;  "     and    then    it 

stalked  anear 
And  showed  a  lowering  face,  and,  dread 

to  see, 
A  countenance  of  angered  majesty. 

Then  said  the  Justice,  all  his  thoughts 
astray, 
With  that  material  Darkness  chiding 
him, 

"  If  this  must  be,  then  speak  to  her,  I 
pray. 
And  bid  her  move,  for  all  the  room 
is  dim 

By  reason  of  the  place   she  holds   to- 
night : 

She  kneels  between  me  and  the  warmth 
and  light." 

"With  adjurations  deep  and  drawings 

strong. 
And  with  the  power,"  it  said,  "  unto 

me  given, 
I    call    upon    thee,   man,   to  tell    thy 

wrong, 
Or  look  no  more  upon  the  face  of 

Heaven. 
Speak !  though  she  kneel  throughout 

the  livelong  night, 
And  yet  shall  kneel  between  thee  and 

the  light." 

This  when  the  Justice  heard,  he  raised 

his  hands. 
And  held  them  as  the  dead  in  effigy 
Hold  theirs,  when  carved  upon  a  tomb. 

The  bands 
Of  fate   had    bound  him    fast :    no 

remedy 
Was  left :  his  voice  unto  himself  was 

strange, 
And    that    unearthly    vision    did    not 

change. 

He  said,   "That  woman  dwells  anear 
my  door. 
Her  life  and  mine  began  the  selfsame 
day, 


THE   DREAMS   THAT  CAME  TRUE. 


And  I  am  hale  and  hearty  :  from  my 

store 
I  never  spared  her  aught :  she  takes 

her  way 
Of    me   unheeded  ;    pinhig,    pinching 

care 
Is  all  tlie  portion  that  she  has  to  share. 

"  She  is  a  broken-down,  poor,  friendless 
wight, 
Through    labor  and  through  sorrow 
early  old  ; 

And    I   have   known  of   this  her    evil 
plight. 
Her  scanty  earnings,  and  her  lodg- 
ment cold ; 

A  patienter  poor  soul  shall  ne'er   be 
found : 

Stie  labored  on  my  land  the  long  year 
round. 

"  What  wouldst   thou   have   me    say, 

thou  Fiend  abhorred  ? 
Show  me  no  more  thine  awful  visage 

grim. 
If  thou  obey' St  a  greater,  tell  thy  lord 
That  1  have  paid  her  wages.     Cry  to 

liim! 
He  has  not  imich  against  me.     None 

can  say 
I  have  not  paid  her  wages  day  by  day. 

"  The   spell !     It  draws   me.     I  must 
speak  again  ; 
And     speak     against     myself;     and 
speak  aloud. 

The  woman  once    approached   me   to 
complain,  — 
'My  wages  are  so  low.'     I  maybe 
proud ; 

It  is  a  fault.''     "  Ay,"  quoth  the  Phan- 
tom fell, 

"  Sinner  !    it  is  a  fault :  thou  sayest 
well." 

"  She  made  her  moan,  '  My  wages  are 
so  low.'" 
"  Tell   on  !  "     "  She   said,"    he   an- 
swered, "  '  My  best  days 
Are  ended,  and  the  summer  is  but  slow 
To  come  ;   and  my  good  strength  for 
work  decays 
By  reason  that  I  live  so  hard,  and  lie 
On  winter  nights  so  bare  for  poverty. '  " 


"And  you  replied," — began  the  low- 
ering shade, 
"And    I    replied,"    the   Justice  fol- 
lowed on, 

"That  wages  like  to  mine  my  neigh- 
bor paid ; 
And  if  I  raised  the  wages  of  the  one 

Straight   should   the   others  murmur; 
furthermore, 

The  winter  was  as  winters  gone  before. 

"  No  colder  and  not  longer."     "  After- 
ward ? "  — 
The  Phantom  questioned.      "After- 
ward," he  groaned, 

"  She  said  my  neighbor  was  a  right 
good  lord, 
Never  a   roof  was  broken   that   he 
owned ; 

He    gave    much    coal     and    clothing. 
'  Doth  he  so? 

Work   for  my  neighbor,   then,'    I   an- 
swered.    '  Go ! 

"'You  are  full  welcome.'     Then  she 

mumbled  out 
She  hoped  I  was  not  angry  ;  hoped, 

forsooth, 
I  would  forgive   her:    and    I    turned 

about. 
And  said  I  should  be  angry  in  good 

truth 
If  this  should  be  again,  or  ever  more 
She  dared  to  stop  me  thus  at  the  church 

door." 

"Then?"  quoth  the  Shade;  and  he, 
constrained,  said  on, 
"Then  she,  reproved,  curtseyed  her- 
self away.' 

"Hast  met  her  since?"   it  made   de- 
mand anon ; 
And  after  pause  the  Justice  answered, 
"Ay; 

Some  wood    was    stolen ;    my  people 
made  a  stir: 

She  was  accused,  and  1  did  sentence 
her." 

But  yet,  and  yet,  the  dreaded  questions 
came : 
"  And  didst  thou  weigh  the  matter,  — 
taking  thouglit 


THE  DREAMS   THAT  CAME    TRUE. 


Upon  her  sober  life  and  honest  fame?" 
"  1  gave  it,"   he  replied,   with  gaze 

distraught ; 
"  I  gave  it,   Fiend,  the  usual  care ;  I 

took 
The  usual  pains ;    I  could  not  nearer 

look, 

"  Because  —  because  their  pilfering  had 
got  head. 
What    wouldst    thou    more?      The 
neighbors  pleaded  hard, 
Tis  true,  and  many  tears  the  creature 
shed ; 
But   I   had  vowed  their  prayers  to 
disregard, 
Heavily  strike   the  first    that    robbed 

my  land, 
And  put  down  thieving  with  a  steady 
hand. 

"  She  said  she  was  not  guilty.     Ay,  'tis 

true 
She  said  so,  but  the  poor  are  liars  all. 
O   thou   fell    Fiend,    what  wilt   thou? 

Must  I  view 
Thy  darkness    yet,    and    must    thy 

shadow  fall 
Upon  me  miserable  ?     I  have  done 
No  worse,  no  more  than  many  a  scath- 

less  one." 


"Yet,"  quoth  the  Shade,  "if  ever  to 

thine  ears 
The  knowledge  of  her  blamelessness 

was  brought, 
Or  others  have   confessed   with  dying 

tears 
The  crime  she  suffered  for,  and  thou 

hast  wrought 
All  reparation  in  thy  power,  and  told 
Into   her  empty    hand    thy    brightest 

gold :  — 

"  If  thou  hast  honored  her,  and  hast 
proclaimed 
Her    innocence    and     thy    deplorfed 
wrong. 
Still  thou  art  naught ;   for   thou  shalt 
yet  be  blamed 
In  that  she,  feeble,  came  before  thee, 
strong, 


And   thou,    in   cruel    haste   to   deal   a 

blow, 
Because    thou     hadst    been    angered, 

worked  her  woe. 

"But  didst  thou  right  her?    Speak!" 

The  Justice  sighed, 
And  beaded  drops  stood  out  upon  his 

brow ; 
"  How  could  I  humble  me,"  forlorn  he 

cried, 
"To  a  base  beggar?      Nay,    I  will 

avow 
That  I  did  ill.    I  will  reveal  the  whole  ; 
I   kept   that   knowledge   in  my  secret 

soul." 


"  Hear  him  !  "  the  Phantom  muttered  ; 
"hear  this  man, 
O  changeless   God   upon   the  judg- 
ment throne." 

With  that,  cold   tremors   through   his 
pulses  ran, 
And    lamentably    he  did   make   his 
moan ; 

While,  with  its  arms  upraised  above  his 
head, 

The  dim  dread  visitor  approached  his 
bed. 


"Into  these  doors,"   it  said,    "which 
thou  hast  closed. 
Daily  this  woman  shall  from  hence- 
forth come ; 

Her  kneeling  form  shall  yet  be  inter- 
posed. 
Till  all  thy  wretched  hours  have  told 
their  sum,  — 

Shall   yet   be   interposed    by   day,    by 
night, 

Between  thee,  sinner,  and  the  warmth 
and  light. 

"  Remembrance  of  her  want  shall  make 
thy  meal 
Like  ashes,  and  thy  wrong  thou  shalt 
not  right. 
But  what!      Nay,   verily,    nor  wealth 
nor  weal 
From    henceforth    shall    afford    thy 
soul  delight. 


LIBRAKY 

UNIVERBTTY  OF  C/ TJFOHNIA 


THE   DREAMS   THAT  CAME    TRUE. 


Till  men  shall  lay  thy  head  beneath  the 

sod, 
There  shall  be  no  deliverance,  saith  my 

God." 

"Tell  me   thy  name,"    the   dreaming 
Justice  cried ; 
"  By   what   appointment    dost    thou 
doom  me  thus  ?" 

"'Tis  well  that  thou   shouldst    know 
me,"  it  replied, 
"  For  mine  thou  art,  and  naught  shall 
sever  us ; 

From  thine  own  lips  and  life  I  draw 
my  force : 

The  name  thy  nation  give  me  is  Re- 
morse." 

This  when   he   heard,    the    dreaming 
man  cried  out. 
And  woke  affrighted ;  and  a  crimson 
glow 

The  dying  ember  shed.     Within,  with- 
out. 
In  eddying  rings  the  silence  seemed 
to  flow ; 

The  wind  had  lulled,  and  on  his  fore- 
head shone 

The  last  low  gleam ;   he  was  indeed 
alone. 

"O,  I  have  had  a  fearful  dream,"  said 

he; 
"  I  will  take  warning  and  for  mercy 

trust ; 
The  fiend  Remorse  shall  never  dwell 

with  me : 
I  will  repair  that  wrong,  I  will  be  just, 
I  will  be  kind,  1  vs'ill  my  ways  amend." 
Now  tlie  first  dream  is  told  utito  its 

end. 

Anigh  the  frozen  mere  a  cottage  stood, 
A   piercing  wind  swept   round  and 

shook  the  door. 
The  shrunken  door,  and  easy  way  made 

good. 
And  drave  long  drifts  of  snow  along 

the  floor. 
It  sparkled  there  like  diamonds,  for  the 

moon 
Was  shining  in,  and  night  was  at  the 

noon. 


Before  her  dying  embers,  bent  and  pale, 
A  woiTian  sat  because  her  bed  was 

cold  ; 
She  heard  the  wind,  the  driving  sleet 

and  hail, 
And   she   was   hunger-bitten,  weak, 

and  old ; 
Yet  while  she  cowered,  and  while  the 

casement  shook, 
Upon  her  trembling  knees  she  held 

a  book  — 

A    comfortable    book    for    them    that 

mourn, 
And  good  to  raise  the  courage  of  the 

poor ; 
It  lifts  the  veil  and  shows,  beyond  the 

bourn, 
Their  Elder  Brother,  from  His  home 

secure, 
That  for  them  desolate  He  died  to  win, 
Repeating,  "  Come,  ye  blessed,  enter 


What  thought  she  on,  this  woman?  on 

her  days 
Of  toil,   or  on  the  supperless  night 

forlorn  ? 
I  think  not  so ;  the  heart  but  seldom 

weighs 
With  conscious  care  a  burden  always 

borne ; 
And  she  was  used  to  these  things,  had 

grown  old 
In  fellowship  with  toil,   hunger,   and 

cold. 

Then  did  she  think  how  sad  it  was  to 
live 
Of  all  the  good  this  world  can  yield 
bereft  ? 

No,  her  untutored  thoughts  she  did  not 
give 
To  such  a  theme ;  but  in  their  warp 
and  weft 

She  wove  a  prayer :  then  in  the  mid- 
night deep 

Faintly  and  slow  she  fell  away  to  sleep. 

A  strange,  a  marvellous  sleep,  which 
brought  a  dream, 
And  it  was  this :  that  all  at  once  she 
heard 


THE   DREAMS    THAT  CAME  TRUE. 


The  pleasant  babbling  of  a  little  stream 
That  ran  beside  her  door,  and  then  a 
bird 

Broke  out  in  songs.  She  looked,  and 
lo !  the  rime 

And  snow  had  melted ;  it  was  sum- 
mer time ! 

And  all   the  cold  was  over,  and  the 
mere 
Full  sweetly  swayed  the  flags  and 
rushes  green ; 

The  mellow  sunlight  poured  right  warm 
and  clear 
Into  her  casement,  and  thereby  were 
seen 

Fair  honeysuckle  flowers,  and  wander- 
ing bees 

Were  hovering  round  the  blossom-laden 
trees. 

She  said,    "  I  will  betake  me  to  my 
door, 
And  will  look  out  and  see  this  won- 
drous sight. 

How  summer  is  come  back,  and  frost 
is  o'er. 
And  all  the  air  warm  waxen  in  a 
night." 

With  that  she  opened,  but  for  fear  she 
cried, 

For  lo !  two  Angels,  —  one  on  either 
side. 

And  while  she  looked,  with  marvelling 
measureless. 
The  Angels  stood  conversing  face  to 
face, 

But  neither  spoke  to  her.     "The  wil- 
derness," 
One  Angel  said,  "the  solitary  place. 

Shall  yet  be  glad  for  Him."  And  then 
full  fain 

The  other  Angel  answered,  "  He  shall 
reign." 

And  when  the  woman  heard,  in  won- 
dering wise. 
She  whispered,  "They  are  speaking 
of  my  Lord." 
And  straiglitway  swept  across  the  open 
skies 
Multitudes  like  to  these.     They  took 
the  word, 


"03 
He  shall  come 


That  flock  of  Angels, 

again. 
My    Lord,    my    Lord ! "    they    sang, 

"and  He  shall  reign  !  " 

Then   they,   drawn   up   into   the  blue 
o'erhead, 
Right    happy,    shining  ones,    made 
haste  to  flee ; 

And  those  before  her  one  to  other  said, 
"  Behold  he  stands  aneath  yon  al- 
mond-tree." 

This  when  the  woman  heard,  she  fain 
had  gazed, 

But  paused  for  reverence,  and  bowed 
down  amazed. 

After  she  looked,  for  this  her  dream 

was  deep  ; 
She  looked,  and  there  was  naught 

beneath  the  tree ; 
Yet  did  her  love  and  longing  overleap 
The  fear  of  Angels,   awful   though 

they  be. 
And  she  passed  out  between  the  blessed 

things, 
And  brushed  her  mortal  weeds  against 

their  wings. 

O,  all  the  happy  world  was  in  its  best, 
The  trees  were  covered  thick  with 
buds  and  flowers, 
And  these  were  dropping  honey ;   for 
the  rest, 
Sweetly   the  birds  were    piping    in 
their  bowers ; 
Across  the  grass  did  groups  of  Angels 

,     S?.       .  . 

And  Samts  in  pairs  were  walldng  to 
and  fro. 

Then  did  she  p£iss  toward  the  almond- 
tree. 
And  none  she  saw  beneath  it :  yet 
each  Saint 

Upon  his  coming  meekly  bent  the  knee. 
And   all   their  glory   as    they  gazed 
waxed  faint. 

And  then  a  lighting  Angel  neared  the 
place. 

And  folded  his  fair  wings  before  his 
face. 


104 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME    TRUE. 


She  also  knelt,  and  spread  her  aged 
hands 
As  feeling  for  the  sacred  human  feet ; 

She  said,  "Mine  eyes  are  held,  but  if 
He  stands 
Anear,  I  will  not  let  Him  hence  re- 
treat 

Except    He    bless  me."      Then,    O 
sweet!   O  fair! 

Some    words   were   spoken,    but    she 
knew  not  where. 

She  knew  not  if  beneath  the  boughs 

they  woke, 
Or  dropt  upon  her  from  the  realms 

above ; 
"  What  wilt  thou,   woman  ?  "    in   the 

dream  He  spoke ; 
"Thy  sorrow  moveth  Me,  thyself  I 

love ; 
Long  have  I  counted  up  thy  mournful 

years, 
Once   I   did  weep  to  wipe  away  thy 

tears." 

She  said :  "  My  one  Redeemer,   only 
blest, 
I   know  Thy  voice,   and    from   my 
yearning  heart 

Draw  out  my  deep  desire,  my  great 
request. 
My  prayer,  that  I  might  enter  wliere 
Thou  art. 

Call  me,  O  call  from  this  world  trouble- 
some. 

And  let  me  see  Thy  face."     He  an- 
swered, "Come." 

Here    is    t/te    ending  of  iJie   seco7td 
dream. 
It  is  a  frosty  morning,  keen  and  cold. 

Fast  locked  are  silent  mere  and  frozen 
stream. 
And  snow  lies  sparkling  on  the  des- 
ert wold ; 

With  savor>'  morning  meats  they  spread 
the  board. 

But    Justice    Wilvermore     will    walk 
abroad. 

"Bring  me  my  cloak,"   quoth  he,   as 
one  in  haste. 
"Before    you    breakfast,    sir?"    his 
man  replies. 


"Ay,"  quoth  he,  quickly,  and  he  will 

not  taste 
Of  aught  before  him,  but  in  urgent 

wise. 
As  he  would  fain  some  carking  care 

allay. 
Across  the  frozen  field  he  takes  his 

way. 

"A  dream  !  how  strange  that  it  should 
move  me  so, 
'Twas  but  a  dream,"  quoth  Justice 
Wilvermore: 

"  And  yet  I  cannot  peace  nor  pleasure 
know. 
For  wrongs  I  have  not  heeded  here- 
tofore ; 

Silver  and  gear  the  crone  shall  have  of 
me, 

And  dwell  for  life  in  yonder  cottage 
free. 

"  For  visions  of  the  night  are  fearful 
things,  • 

Remorse  is  dread,  though  merely  in 
a  dream  ; 
I  will  not  subject  me  to  visitings 

Of  such  a  sort  again.     I  will  esteem 
My   peace    above    my    pride.      P'rora 

natures  rude 
A  little  gold  will  buy  me  gratitude. 

"The    woman    shall    have    leave    to 
gather  wood, 
As  much  as  she  may  need,  the  long 
year  round ; 

She  shall,  I  say ;   moreover,   it  were 
good 
Yon  other  cottage  roofs  to  render 
sound. 

Thus  to  my  soul  the  ancient  peace  re- 
store. 

And  sleep  at  ease,"  quoth  Justice  Wil- 
vermore. 

With  that  he  nears  the  door :  a  frosty 
rime 
Is  branching  over  it,  and  drifts  are 
deep 
Against   the   wall.       He  knocks,   and 
there  is  time  — 
(For  none  doth  open),  —  time  to  list 
the  sweep 


THE  DREAMS   THAT  CAME    TRUE. 


los 


And  whistle  of  the  wind    along    the 

mere, 
Through  beds  of  stiffened  reeds  and 

rushes  sear. 

"  If  she  be  out,  I  have  my  pains  for 

naught,' ' 
He  saith,  and  knocks  again,  and  yet 

once  more. 
But    to   his   ear  nor  step   nor  stir  is 

brought ; 
And,  after  pause,   he  doth  unlatch 

the  door 
And  enter.     No  ;  she  is  not  out,  for 

see. 
She  sits  asleep  'mid  frost-work  winterly. 

Asleep,  asleep  before  her  empty  grate. 
Asleep,  asleep,    albeit   the   landlord 

call. 
"  What,  dame,"  he  saith,  and  comes 

toward  her  straight, 
"Asleep  so  early!"     But  whate'er 

befall, 
She  sleepeth  ;  then  he  nears  her,  and 

behold 
He  lays  a  hand  on  hers,  and  it  is  cold. 

Then  doth  the  Justice  to  his  home  re- 
turn ; 
From  that  day  forth  he  wears  a  sad- 
der brow ; 

His  hands  are  opened,  and  his  heart 
doth  learn 
The  patience  of  the  poor.     He  made 
a  vow 

And  keeps  it,  for  the  old  and  sick  have 
shared 

His  gifts,  their  sordid  homes  he  hath 
repaired. 

And  some  he  hath  made   happy,  but 
for  him 
Is  happiness  no  more.     He  doth  re- 
pent, 

And  now  the  light  of  joy  is  waxen  dim, 
Are  all  his  hopes  toward  the  Highest 
sent  ; 

He  looks  for  mercy,  and  he  waits  re- 
lease 

Above,   for  this  world  doth  not   yield 
him.  peace. 


Night  after  night,  night  after  desolate 

night. 
Day   after    day,    day    after    tedious 

day, 
Stands  by  his  fire,  and  dulls  its  gleamy 

light, 
Paceth  behind  or  meets  him  in  the 

way  ; 
Or  shares    the    path    by    hedge-row, 

mere,  or  stream. 
The   visitor  that  doomed  him   in  his 

dream. 


Thy  kingdom  come. 
I  heard  a  Seer  cry  :   "  The  wilderness, 

The  solitary  place. 
Shall   yet   be   glad  for  Him,  and  He 

shall  bless 
(Thy  kingdom  come)  with  His  revealed 

face 
The    forests ;   they  shall    drop    their 

precious  gum, 
And  shed  for  Him  their  balm  :   and  He 

shall  yield 
The  grandeur  of  His  speech  to  charm 

the  field. 

"Then   all   the    soothed    winds    shall 
drop  to  listen, 
(Thy  kingdom  come,) 
Comforted   waters   waxen    calm    shall 

glisten 
With  bashful  tremblement  beneath  His 
smile : 
And  Echo  ever  the  while 
Shall   take,   and  in   her  awful  joy  re- 
peat, 
The  laughter  of  His  lips —  (Thy  king- 
dom come): 
And  hills  that   sit  apart  shall  be  no 
longer  dumb ; 
No,  they  shall  shout  and  shout, 
Raining  their  lovely  loyalty  along  the 
dewy  plain : 
And  valleys  round  about, 

"And    all     the    well-contented    land, 
made  sweet 
With  flowers  she  opened  at  His 
feet- 


io6 


SO.VGS  ON   THE  VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 


Shall   answer ;    shout    and  make  the 

welkin  ring, 
And  tell  it  to  the  stars,  shout,  shout, 
and  sing  ; 
Her  cup  being  full  to  the  brim, 
Her  po\erty  made  rich  with  Him, 
Her  yearning   satisfied  to  its    utmost 

sum  — 
Lift  up  thy  voice,  O  Earth,  prepare  thy 
song, 
It  shall  not  yet  be  long, 
Lift  up,  O   Earth,  for  He  shall  come 

again, 
Thy   Lord ;  and   He   shall  reign,  and 
He  SHALL  reign  — 
Thy  kingdom  come." 


SONGS    ON    THE    VOICES    OF 
BIRDS. 

introduction. 

Child  and  Boatman. 

"Martin,  I   wonder  who  makes  all 
the  songs." 
"You  do,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  I  wonder  how  they  come." 
"  Well,  boy,  I  wonder  what  you'll  won- 
der next !  " 
"  But  somebody  must  make  them  ?  "' 

"  Sure  enough." 
"  Does  your  wife  know  ? " 

"She  never  said  she  did." 
"You  told  me  that  she  knew  so  many 

things." 
"  I  said  she  was  a  London  woman,  sir. 
And  a  fine  scholar,  but  I  never  said 
She  knew  about  the  songs." 

"  I  wish  she  did." 
"  And    I   wish    no    such   thing  ;    she 

knows  enough. 
She  knows  too  much  already.     Look 

you  now, 
This    vessel's    off   the  stocks,    a   tidy 

craft." 
"  A  schooner,  Martin?" 

"  No,  boy,  no  ;  a  brig, 
Only  she's  schooner-rigged, — a  lovely 
craft." 


"  Is  she  for  me  ?    O,  thank  you,  Mar- 
tin dear. 
What  shall  I  call  her?" 

"Well,  sir,  what  you  please." 
"  Then  write  on  her  '  The  Eagle.'  " 

"  Bless  the  child! 
Eagle !  why,  you  know  naught  of  eagles, 

you. 
When  we  lay  off  the  coast,  up  Canada 

way, 
And  chanced  to  be  ashore  when  twi- 
light fell. 
That  was  the  place  for  eagles;  bald 

they  were. 
With  eyes  as  yellow  as  gold." 

"  O,  Martin,  dear, 
Tell  me  about  them." 

"Tell!  there's  naught  to  tell. 
Only  they  snored  o'  nights  and  frighted 

us." 
"  Snored?" 

"  Ay,    I    tell   you,   snored ;   they 
slept  upright 
In  the  ^eat  oaks  by  scores ;  as  true  as 

time. 
If  I'd  had  aught  upon  my  mind  just 

then, 
I  would  n't  have  walked  that  wood  for 

unknown  gold ; 
It  was  most  awful.     When  the  moon 

was  full, 
I've  seen   them   fish  at  night,  in  the 

middle  watch. 
When  she  got  low.     I've  seen   them 

plunge  like  stones. 
And  come  up   fighting  with  a  fish  as 

long, 
Ay,   longer  than   my    arm ;  and  they 

would  sail  — 
When  they  had  struck  its  life   out  — 

they  would  sail 
Over  the   deck,   and  show  their  fell, 

fierce  eyes, 
And  croon  for  pleasure,  hug  the  prey, 

and  speed 
Grand  as  a  frigate  on  the  wind." 

"  My  ship. 
She  must  be  called  '  The  Eagle  '  after 

these. 
And,  Martin,  ask  your  wife  about  the 

songs 
When  you  go  in  at  dinner-time." 

"  Not  I." 


SOA'GS  OX   THE    VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 


THE     NIGHTINGALE     HEARD 

BY   THE   UNSATISFIED 

HEART. 

When  in  a  May-day  hush 
Chanteth  the  Missel-thrush, 
The  harp  o'  the  heart  makes  answer 
with  murmurous  stirs ; 
When  Robin-redbreast  sings, 
We  think  on  budding  springs. 
And  Culvers  when  they  coo  are  love's 
remembrancers. 


But  thou  in  the  trance  of  light 
Stayest  the  feeding  night, 
And  Echo  makes  sweet  her  lips  with 
the  utterance  wise. 
And  casts  at  our  glad  feet, 
In  a  wisp  of  fancies  fleet, 
Life'sfair,  life's  unfulfilled,  impassioned 
prophecies. 


Her  central  thought  full  well 
Thou  hast  the  wit  to  tell. 
To  take  the  sense  o'  the  dark  and  to 
yield  it  so ; 
The  moral  of  moonlight 
To  set  in  a  cadence  bright. 
And  sing  our   loftiest   dream   that  we 
thought  none  did  know. 


I  have  no  nest  as  thou, 
Bird  on  the  blossoming  bough. 
Yet   over  thy   tongue   outfloweth    the 
song  o'  my  soul. 
Chanting,      Forego  thy  strife, 
The  spirit  out-acts  the  life. 
But  MUCH  is  seldom  theirs  who   can 
perceive  the  whole. 


"Thou  drawest  a  peVfect  lot 
All  thine,  but  holden  not. 
Lie  low,  at  the  feet  of  beauty  that  ever 
shall  bide  ; 
There  might  be  sorer  smart 
Than  thine,  far-seeing  heart. 
Whose  fate  is  still  to  yearn,  and  not  be 
satisfied." 


SAND   MARTINS. 

I  PASSED  an  inland-cliff  precipitate  ; 
From    tiny    caves    peeped    many   a 
sooty  poll ; 
In  each  a  mother-martin  sat  elate, 
And  of  the  news  delivered  her  small 
sold. 

Fantastic  chatter !  hasty,  glad,  and  gay, 
Whereof  the  meaning  was  not  ill  to 
tell : 
"  Gossip,  how  wags  the  world  with  you 
to-day?  " 
"  Gossip,   the  world  wags  well,  the 
world  wags  well." 

And  heark'ning,  I  was  sure  their  little 
ones 
Were  in  the  bird-talk,  and  discourse 
was  made 
Concerning  hot  sea-bights   and   tropic 
suns, 
For  a  clear  sultriness  the  tune  con- 
veyed ; — 

And  visions  of  the  sky  as  of  a  cup 
Hailing  down   light  on  pagan  Pha- 
raoh's sand. 
And  quivering  air-waves  trembling  up 
and  up. 
And  blank  stone  faces  marvellously 
bland. 

"When  should  the  young  be  fledged 
and  with  them  hie 
Where   costly   day    drops    down    in 
crimson  light  ? 
(Fortunate  countries  of  the  fire-fly 
Swarm  with  blue  diamonds  aJl  the 
sultry  night, 

"And  the  immortal  moon  takes  turn 
with  them.) 
When    should    they  pass  again  by 
that  red  land. 
Where  lovely  mirage  works  a  broidered 
hem 
To    fringe    with    phantom-palms    a 
robe  of  sand  ? 


io8 


SOXGS  ON  THE    VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 


"  When  should  they  dip  their  breasts 
again  and  play 
In  slumberous  azure  pools,  clear  as 
the  air, 
Where  rosy-winged  flamingoes  fish  all 
day, 
Stalking  amid  the  lotos-blossom  fair  ? 

"Then,  over  podded  tamarinds  bear 
their  flight, 
While  cassias  blossom  in  the  zone  of 


bight, 
■    To  gossip  in  the  crovms  of  cocoa- 
palms 

"  Whose  roots   are  in  the  spray.     O, 
haply  there 
Some  dawn,  white-winged  they  might 
chance  to  find 
A  frigate,   standing  in  to  make   more 
fair 
The  loneliness  unaltered  of  mankind. 

"  A  frigate  come  to  water :  imts  would 
fall. 
And   nimble    feet   would    climb   the 
flower-flushed  strand. 
While  northern  talk  would  ring,   and 
therewithal 
The  martins  would  desire  the   cool 
north  land. 

"  And  all  would  be  as  it  had  been  be- 
fore ; 
Again,  at  eve,  there  would  be  news 
to  tell ; 
Who  passed  should  hear  them  chant 
It  o'er  and  o'er, 
'Gossip,    how    wags     the     world?' 
'Well,  gossip,  well.'  " 


A  POET   IN   HIS  YOUTH,  AND 
THE  CUCKOO-BIRD. 

Once  upon  a  time,  I  lay 
Fast  asleep  at  dawn  of  day ; 
Windows  open  to  the  south. 
Fancy  pouting  her  sweet  mouth 
To  my  ear. 


She  turned  a  globa 
In  her  slender  hand,  her  robe 
Was  all  spangled  ;  and  she  said, 
As  she  sat  at  my  bed's  head, 
"  Poet,  poet,  what !   asleep  ? 
Look !  the  ray  runs  up  the  steep 
To  your  roof."     Then  in  the  golden 
Essence  of  romances  olden, 
Bathed  she  my  entranced  heart. 
And  she  gave  a  hand  to  me, 
Drew  me  onward  ;  "  Come !  ' '  said  she  ; 
And  she  moved  with  me  apart, 
Down  the  lovely  vale  of  Leisure. 

Such  its  name  was,  I  heard  say, 
For  some  Fairies  trooped  that  way; 
Common  people  of  the  place. 
Taking  their  accustomed  pleasure 
(All  the  clocks  being  stopped),  to  race 
Down  the  slope  on  palfreys  fleet. 
Bridle  bells  made  tinkling  sweet; 
And  they  said,  "What  signified 
Faring  home  till  eventide  : 
There  were  pies  on  every  shelf. 
And  the  bread  would  bake  itself." 
But  for  that  I  cared  not,  fed, 
As  it  were,  with  angels'  bread, 
Sweet  as  honey  ;  yet  next  day 
All  foredoomed  to  melt  away  ; 
Gone  before  the  sun  waxed  hot, 
Melted  manna  that  was  not. 

Rock-doves'  poetry  of  plaint. 
Or  the  starling's  courtship  quaint ; 
Heart  made  much  of,  'twas  a  boon 
Won  from  silence,  and  too  soon 
Wasted  in  the  ample  air : 
Building  rooks  far  distant  were 
Scarce  at  all  would  speak  the  rills, 
And  I  saw  the  idle  hills. 
In  their  amber  hazes  deep. 
Fold  themselves  and  go  to  sleep, 
TJiough  it  was  not  yet  high  noon. 

Silence  ?    Rather  music  brought 
From  the  spheres !     As  if  a  thought, 
Having  taken  wings,  did  fly 
Through  the  reaches  of  the  skv. 
Silence  ?     No,  a  sumptuous  sigh 
That  had  found  embodiment, 
That  had  come  across  the  deep 
After  months  of  wintry  sleep. 
And  with  tender  heavings  went 
Floating  up  the  firmament. 


SOI^GS  ON   THE    VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 


"  O,"    I    mourned,    half    slumbering 

"  'T  is  the  voice  of  my  regret,  — 
Mine!"  and  I  awoke.     Full  sweet 
Saffron  sunbeams  did  me  greet ; 
And  the  voice  it  spake  again. 
Dropped  from  yon  b'ue  cup  of  light 
Or  some  cloudlet  swan's-down  white 
On  my  soul,  that  drank  full  fain 
The  sharp  joy  —  the  sweet  pain  — 
Of  its  clear,  right  innocent, 
Unreprovfed  discontent. 
How  it  came  —  where  it  went  — 
Who  can  tell?    The  open  blue 
Quivered  with  it,  and  I,  too, 
1  rembled.     I  remembered  me 
Of  the  springs  that  used  to  be, 
When  a  dimpled  white-haired  child. 
Shy  and  tender  and  halt"  wild. 
In  the  meadows  I  had  heard 
Some  way  off  the  talking  bird. 
And  had  felt  it  marvellous  sweet. 
For  it  laughed :  it  did  me  greet. 
Calling  me  :  yet,  hid  away 
In  the  woods,  it  would  not  play. 
No. 

And  all  the  world  about. 
While  a  man  will  work  or  sing. 
Or  a  child  pluck  flowers  of  spring, 
Thou  wilt  scatter  music  out, 
Rouse  him  with  thy  wandering  note, 
Changeful  fancies  set  afloat. 
Almost  tell  with  thy  clear  throat. 
But  not  quite,  the  wonder-rife. 
Most  sweet  riddle,  dark  and  dim. 
That  he  searcheth  all  his  life, 
Searclieth  yet,  and  ne'er  expoundeth  ; 
And  so,  winnowing  of  thy  wings, 
Touch  and  trouble  his  heart's  strings, 
That  a  certain  music  soundeth 
In  that  wondrous  instrument, 
With  a  trembling  upward  sent, 
That  is  reckoned  sv\eet  above 
By  the  Greatness  surnamed  Love. 

"  O,  I  hear  thee  in  the  blue  ; 
Would  that  I  might  wing  it  too! 
O  to  have  what  hope  hath  seen! 
O  to  be  what  might  have  been  ! 
O  to  set  my  life,  sweet  bird. 
To  a  tune  that  oft  I  heard 
When  I  used  to  stand  alone 
Listening  to  the  lovely  moan 


Of  the  swaying  pines  o'erhead. 
While,  a-gathering  of  bee-bread 
For  their  living,  murmured  round, 
As  the  pollen  dropped  to  ground, 
All  the  nations  from  the  hives ; 
And  the  little  brooding  wives 
On  each  nest,  brown  dusky  things. 
Sat  with  gold-dust  on  their  -wings. 
Then  beyond  (more  sweet  than  all) 
Talked  the  tumbling  waterfall ; 
And  there  were,  and  there  were  not 
(As  might  fall,  and  form  anew 
Bell-hung  drops  of  honey-dew) 
Echoes  of —  I  know  not  what ; 
As  if  some  right-joyous  elf. 
While  about  his  own  affairs, 
Whistled  softly  otherwheres. 
Nay,  as  if  our  motlier  dear. 
Wrapped  in  sun-warm  atmosphere. 
Laughed  a  little  to  herself. 
Laughed  a  little  as  she  rolled. 
Thinking  on  the  days  of  old. 

"  Ah  !  there  be  some  hearts,  I  wis, 
To  which  nothing  comes  amiss. 
Mine  was  one.     Much  secret  wealth 
I  was  heir  to :  and  by  stealth. 
When  the  moon  w\as  fully  grown, 
And  she  thought  herself  alone, 
I  have  heard  her,  ay,  right  well, 
-Shoot  a  silver  message  down 
To  the  unseen  sentinel 
Of  a  still,  snow-thatched  town. 

"  Once,  awhile  ago,  I  peered 
In  the  nest  where  Spnng  was  reared. 
There  she,  quivering  her  fair  wings, 
Flattered  March  with  chirrupings  ; 
And  they  fed  her  ;  nights  and  days. 
Fed  her  mouth  with  much  sweet  food, 
And  her  heart  v\'ith  love  and  praise. 
Till  the  wild  thing  rose  and  flew 
Over  woods  and  water-springs, 
Shaking  off  the  morning  dew 
In  a  rainbow  from  her  wings. 

"  Once  (I  will  to  you  confide 
More),  —  O,  once  in  forest  wide, 
I,  benighted,  overheard 
Marvellous  mild  echoes  stirred, 
And  a  calling  half  defined. 
And  an  answering  from  afar ; 
Somewhat  talked  with  a  star, 
And  the  talk  was  of  mankind. 


no 


SOATGS  OAT  THE    VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 


"  '  Cuckoo,  cuckoo ! ' 

Float  anear  in  upper  blue : 

Art  thou  yet  a  prophet  true  ? 

Wilt  thou  say,  '  And  having  seen 

Things  that  be,  and  have  not  been, 

Thou  art  free  o'  the  world,  for  naught 

Can  despoil  thee  of  thy  thought'  ? 

Nay,  but  make  me  music  yet, 

Bird,  as  deep  as  my  regret ; 

For  a  certain  hope  halh  set. 

Like  a  star,  and  left  me  heir 

To  a  crying  for  its  light, 

An  aspiring  infinite. 

And  a  beautiful  despair! 

"  Ah !  no  more,  no  more,  no  more 
I  shall  lie  at  thy  shut  door. 
Mine  ideal,  my  desired. 
Dreaming  thou  wilt  open  it. 
And  step  out,  tho\i  most  admired, 
By  my  side  to  fare,  or  sit. 
Quenching  hunger  and  all  drouth 
With  the  wit  of  thy  fair  mouth. 
Showing  me  the  wishid  prize 
In  the  calm  of  thy  dove's  eyes, 
Teaching  me  the  wonder-rife 
Majesties  of  human  life, 
AH  its  fairest  possible  sum, 
And  the  grace  of  its  to  come. 

«  What  a  difference !     Why  of  late 
All  sweet  music  used  to  say, 
'  She  will  come,  and  with  thee  stay 
To-morrow,  man,  if  not  to-day.' 
Now  it  murmurs,  '  Wait,  wait,  wait ! 


A  RAVEN  IN  A  WHITE  CHINE. 

I  SAW,  when  I  looked  up,  on  either 
hand, 
A  pale  high  chalk-cliff,  reared  aloft 
in  white ; 
A  narrowing  rent  soon  closed  toward 
the  land,  — 
Toward  the   sea,   an  open  yawning 
bight. 

The  polished  tide,  with  scarce  a  hint  of 
blue, 
Washed   in   the  bight;   above  with 
angry  moan 


A   raven,  that  was  robbed,  sat  up  in 
view. 
Croaking  and  crying  on  a  ledge  alone. 

"  Stand  on   thy  nest,   spread  out   thy 
fateful  wings. 
With  sullen  hungry  love  bemoan  thy 
brood, 
For  boys  have  wrung  their  necks,  those 
imp-like  things. 
Whose  beaks  dripped  crimson  daily 
at  their  food. 

"  Cry,  thou  black  prophetess !  cry,  and 
despair ; 
None  love  thee,  none!     Theirfather 
was  thy  foe. 
Whose  father  in  his  youth  did  know 
thy  lair, 
And  steal  thy  little  demons  long  ago. 

"  Thou  madest  many  childless  for  their 
sake. 
And  picked  out  many  eyes  that  loved 
the  light. 
Cry,   thou  "black   prophetess!    sit  up, 
awake,  ^ 

Forebode ;    and  ban   them  through 
the  desolate  night." 

Lo!  while  I  spake  it,  with  a  crimson 
hue 
The  dipping  sun  endowed  that  silver 
flood. 
And  all  the  cliffs  flushed  red,  and  up 
she  flew, 
The  bird,  as  mad  to  bathe  in  airy 
blood. 

"  Nay,   thou  mayst  cry,  the  omen  is 
not  thine. 
Thou  aged  priestess  of  fell   doom, 
and  fate. 
It  is  not  blood :  thy  gods  are  makmg 
wine. 
They   spilt   the   must   outside    their 
city  gate, 

"  Arid  stained  their    azure   pavement 
with  the  lees : 
They  will  not  listen  though  thou  cry 
aloud. 


SOJVGS  ON  THE    VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 


Old  Chance,  thy  dame,  sits  mumbling 
at  her  ease, 
Nor  hears  ;  the  fair  hag.  Luck,  is  in 
her  shroud. 

"They  heed  not,    they  withdraw  the 
sky-hung  sign : 
Thou  hast    no    charm    against  the 
favorite  race ; 
Thy  gods  pour  out  for  it,  not  blood, 
but  wine : 
There  is  no  justice  in  their  dwelling- 
place  ! 

"  Safe  in  their  father's  house  the  boys 
shall  rest, 
Though   thy   fell   brood  doth   stark 
and  silent  lie ; 
Their  unborn  sons  may  yet  de-.poil  thy 
nest: 
Cry,  thou  black  prophetess !  lift  up ! 
cry,  cry!  " 


THE    WARBLING   OF    BLACK- 
BIRDS. 

When  I  hear  the  waters  fretting, 
When  I  see  the  chestnut  letting 
All  her  lovely  blossom  falter  down,  I 
think,  "  Alas  the  day  !  " 
Once,  with  magical  sweet  singing^ 
Blackbirds  set  the  woodland  ringing. 
That  awakes  no  more  while  April  hours 
wear  themselves  away. 

In  our  hearts  fair  hope  lay  smihng, 

Sweet  as  air,  and  all  beguiling  ; 

And  there  hung  a  mist  of  bluebells  on 

the  slope  and  down  the  dell  ; 

And  we  talked  of  joy  and  splendor 

That  the  years  unborn  would  render, 

And  the  blackbirds  helped  us  with  the 

story,  for  they  knew  it  well. 

Piping,    fluting,     "  Bees    are    hum- 
ming, 
April's  here,  and  summer's  coming  ; 
Don  t  forget  us  when  you  walk,  a  man 
with  men,  in  pride  and  joy  ; 
Think  on  us  in  alleys  shady. 
When  you  step  a  graceful  lady ; 
For  no  fairer  day  have  we  to  hope  for, 
little  girl  and  boy. 


"  Laugh  and  play,  O  lisping  waters. 

Lull  our  downy  sons  and  daughters  ; 

Come,   O   wind,    and  rock   their  leafy 

cradle  in  thy  wanderings  coy  ; 

When    they    wake,    we'll    end    the 

measure 
With  a  wild  sweet  cry  of  pleasure. 
And  a  '  Hey  down  derry,  let's  be  merry  ! 
little  girl  and  boy! '  " 


SEA-MEWS  IN  WINTER  TIME. 

I  WALKED  beside  a  dark  gray  sea. 
And  said,  "O  world,  how  cold  thou 
art! 
Thou  poor  white  world,  I  pity  thee. 
For  joy  and  warmth  from  thee  de- 
part. 

"  Yon  rising  wave  licks  off  the  snow. 
Winds  on  the  crag  each  other  chase, 

In  little  powdery  whirls  they  blow 
The  misty  fragments  down  its  face. 

"The  sea  is  cold,  and  dark  its  rim. 
Winter  sits  cowering  on  the  wold. 

And  I,  beside  this  watery  brim, 
Am  also  lonely,  also  cold." 

I  spoke,  and  drew  toward  a  rock, 
Where  many  mews  made  twittering 
sweet : 
Their  wings  upreared,    the   clustering 
flock 
Did  pat  the  sea-grass  with  their  feet. 

A  rock  but  half  submerged,  the  sea 
Ran   up   and  washed  it   while  they 
fed; 

Their  fond  and  foolish  ecstasy 
A  wondering  in  my  fancy  bred. 


Joy  companied  with  every  cry, 

Joy  in  their  food,  in  that  keen  wind, 

That  heaving  sea,  that  shaded  sky. 
And    in    themselves,    and  in    their 
kind. 


LAURANCE. 


The  phantoms  of  the  deep  at  play  ! 

What   idless  graced   the    twittering 
things ; 
Luxurious  paddlings  in  the  spray, 

And  deHcate  lifting  up  of  wings. 

Then  all  at  once  a  flight,  and  fast 
The  lovely  crowd  liew  out  to  sea  ; 

If  mine  own  life  had  been  recast. 
Earth  had  not  looked  more  changed 
to  me. 

"  Where    is    the  cold  ?    Yon  clouded 
skies 
Have  only  dropped  their  curtains  low 
To  shade  the  old  mother  where   she 
lies. 
Sleeping  a  little,  'neath  the  snow. 

"The  cold  is  not  in  crag,  nor  scar, 
Not  in  the  snows  that  lap  the  lea, 

Not  in  yon  wings  that  beat  afar, 
Delighting,  on  the  crested  sea ; 

"  No,  nor  in  yon  exultant  wind 
That  shakes  the  oak  and  bends  the 
pine. 
Look  near,  look  in,  and  thou  shalt  find 
No  sense   of    cold,   fond  fool,    but 
thine!  " 

With  that  I  felt  the  gloom  depart, 
And  thoughts  within  me  did  unfold. 

Whose  sunshine  wanned    me    to  the 
heart : 
I  walked  in  joy,  and  was  not  cold. 


LAURANCE. 


Ke  knew  she  did  not  love  him  ;  but  so 

long 
As  rivals  were   unknown   to  him,   he 

dwelt 
At  ease,   and  did  not  find  his  love  a 

pain. 


He  had  much  deference  in  his  nature, 

need 
To  honor,  —  it  became   him :  he  was 

frank, 
Fresh,   hardy,  of  a  joyous  mind,  and 

strong,  — 
Looked  all  things  straight  in  the  face. 

So  when  she  came 
Before  liini  first,  he  looked  at  her,  and 

looked 
No  more,  but  colored  to  his  healthful 

brow. 
And  wished  himself  a  better  man,  and 

thought 
On  certain   things,    and  wished    they 

were  undone. 
Because    her   girlish    innocence,    the 

grace 
Of  her  unblemished  pureness,  wrought 

in  him 
A  longing  and  a"spiring,  and  a  shame 
To  think  how  wicked  was  the  world,  — 

that  world 
Which  he  must  walk  in,  —  while  from 

her  (and  such 
As  she  was)  it  was  hidden ;  there  was 

made 
A  clean  path,  and  the  girl  moved  on 

like  one 
In  some  enchanted  ring. 

In  his  young  heart 
She  reigned,  with  all  the  beauties  that 

she  had, 
And   all   the   virtues   that    he   rightly 

took 
For  granted  ;  there  he  set  her  with  her 

crown, 
And  at  her  first  enthronement  he  turned 

out 
Much   that  was  best  away,   for    un- 
aware 
His  thoughts   grew   noble.      She   was 

always  there 
And  knew  it  not,  and  he  grew  like  to 

her, 
And  like  to  what  he  thought  her. 

Now  he  dwelt 
With  kin  that  loved  him  well, — two 

fine  old  folk, 
A  rich,  right  honest  yeoman,  and  his 

daine,  — 


LAURANCE. 


113 


Their  only  grandson  he,  their  pride, 

their  heir. 
To  these  one  daughter  had  been  born, 

one  child, 
And  as  she  grew  to  woman,  "  Look," 

they  said, 
"  She  must  not  leave  us  ;  let  us  build  a 

wing. 
With  cheerful  rooms  and  wide,  to  our 

old  grange  ; 
There  may  she  dwell,  with  her  good 

man,  and  all 
God  sends  them."     Then  the  girl  in 

her  first  youth 
Manied  a  curate,  —  handsome,    poor 

in  purse. 
Of  gentle  blood  and  manners,  and  he 

lived 
Under  her  father's  roof  as  they  had 

planned. 

Full  soon,  for  happy  years  are  short, 

they  filled 
The  house   with   children ;  four  were 

born  to  them. 
Then    came    a    sickly    season ;    fever 

spread 
Among  the  poor.     The  curate,  never 

slack 
In  duty,  praying  by  the  sick,  or,  worse. 
Burying  the  dead,  when  all  the  air  was 

clogged 
With   poisonous   mist,    was    stricken ; 

long  he  lay 
Sick,  almost  to  the  death,  and  when  his 

head 
He  lifted  from  the  pillow,  there  was 

left 
One   only  of  that    pretty    flock :     his 

girls, 
His  three,  were  cold  beneath  the  sod  ; 

his  boy, 
Their  eldest  born,  remained. 

The  drooping  wife 
Bore  lier  great  sorrow  in   such   quiet 

wise. 
That  first  they  marvelled  at  her,  then 

tliey  tried 
To  rouse  her,  showing  her  their  bitter 

grief, 
Lamenting,  and  not  sparing ;  but  she 

sighed, 
"  Let  me  alone,  it  will  not  be  for  long." 


Then  did  her  mother  tremble,  murmur- 
ing out, 

"  Dear  child,  the  best  of  comfort  will  be 
soon, 

O,  when  you  see  this  other  little  face, 

You  will,  please  God,  be  comforted." 

She  said, 
"I  shall  not  live  to  see  it;"  but  she 

did,  — 
A  little  sickly  face,  a  wan,  thin  face. 
Then   she  grew   eager,    and  hsr  eyes 

were  bright 
When    she    would    plead    with   them, 

"  Take  me  away. 
Let  me  go  south  ;  it  is  the  bitter  blast 
That  chills  my  tender  babe ;  she  can- 
not thrive 
Under    the    desolate,    dull,   mournful 

cloud."  * 
Then  all  they  journeyed  south  together, 

mute 
With  past  and  coming  sorrow,  till  the 

sun. 
In  gardens    edging  the  blue   tideless 

main. 
Warmed  them  and  calmed  the  aching 

at  their  hearts. 
And  all  went  better  for  a  while ;    but 

not 
For  long.     They  sitting  by  the  orange 

trees 
Once    rested,   and  the  wife  was  very 

still :  [up 

A  woman  with  narcissus  flowers  heaped 
Let  down  her  basket  from  her  head, 

but  paused 
With  pitying  gesture,   and  drew  near 

and  stooped. 
Taking  a   white   wild  face   upon  her 

breast. 
The  little  babe  on  its  ptfor   mother's 

knees, 
None  marking  it,  none  knowing  else, 

had  died. 

[hind. 
The  fading  mother  could  not  stay  be- 
Her  heart   was   broken ;    but  it   awed 

them  most 
To  feel  thev  must  not,  dared  not,  pray 

for  life, 
Seeing  she  longed  to  go,  and  went  so 

gladly. 


114 


LAURANCE. 


After,  these  three,  who  loved  each 
other  well, 

Brought  their  one  child  away,  and  they 
were  best 

Together  in  the  wide  old  grange.  Full 
oft 

The  father  with  the  mother  talked  of 
her, 

Their  daughter,  but  the  husband  never- 
more ; 

He  looked  for  solace  in  liis  work,  and 
gave 

His  ninid  to  teach  his  boy.  And  time 
went  on. 

Until  the  grandsire  prayed  those  other 
two, 

"  Now  part  with  him ;  it  must  be ;  for 
his  good: 

He  rules  and  knows  it ;  choose  for  him 
a  school,  , 

Let  him  have  all  the  advantages,  and  all 

Good  training  that  should  make  a  gen- 
tleman." 


With  that  they  parted  from  their  boy, 

and  lived 
Longing    between    his    holidays,    and 

time 
Sped ;  he  grew  on  till  he  had  eighteen 

years. 
His  father  loved  him,  wished  to  make 

of  him 
Another  parson  ;  but  the  farmer's  wife 
Rlurnuired  at    that  —  "No,    no,   they 

learned  bad  ways. 
They  ran  in  debt  at  college ;  she  had 

heard 
That  many  rued  the  day  they  sent  their 

boys 
To  college : "    and  between   the  two 

broke  in 
His  grandsire,  "  Find  a  sober,  honest 

man, 
A  scholar,  for  our  lad  should  see  the 

world 
While  he  is  young,  that  he  may  marry 

young. 
He  will  not  settle  and  be  satisfied 
Till  he  has  run  about  the  world  awhile. 
Good  lack,   I   longed  to  travel  in  my 

youth. 
And  had  no  chance  to  do  it.     Send  him 

off, 


A  sober  man  being  found  to  trust  him 

with,  — 
One  with  the  fear  of  God  before  his 

eyes." 
And  he  prevailed  ;  the  careful  father 

chose 
A    tutor,   young,   the  worthy    matron 

thought,  — 
In  truth,  not  ten  years  older  than  her 

boy. 
And  glad  as  he  to  range,  and  keen  for 

snows. 
Desert,  and  ocean.     And  they  made 

strange  choice 
Of  where  to  go,  left  the  sweet  day  be- 
hind, 
And  pushed  up  north  in  whaling  ships, 

to  feel 
What  cold  was,  see  the  blowing  whale 

come  up. 
And  Arctic  creatures,  while  a  scarlet 

sun 
Went  round  and  round,  crowd  on  the 

clear  blue  berg. 

Then  did  the  trappers  have  them  ;  and 

they  heard 
Nightly  the  whistling  calls  of  forest- 
men 
That  mocked  the  forest  wonners ;  and 

they  saw 
Over  the  open,  raging  up  like  doom, 
The  dangerous  dust-cloud,  that  was  full 

of  eyes  — 
The  bisons.     So  were  three  years  gone 

like  one ; 
And  the  old  cities  drew  them  for  a 

while, 
Great  mothers,  by  the  Tiber  and  the 

Seine ; 
They  have  hid  many  sons  hard  by  their 

seats. 
But  all  the  air  is  stirring  with  them 

still. 
The  waters  murmur  of  them,  skies  at 

eve 
Are  stained  with  their  rich  blood,  and 

every  sound 
Means  men. 

At  last,  the  fourth  year  running  out, 
The  youth  came   home.     And  all  the 
cheerful  house 


LAURANCE. 


"S 


Was  decked  in  fresher  colors,  and  the 

dame 
Was  full  of  joy.     But  in  the  father's 

heart 
Abode   a  painful    doubt.     "  It   is   not 

well  ; 
He  cannot  spend  his  life  with  dog  and 

gun. 
I  do  not  care  that  my  one  son  should 

sleep 
Merely  for  keeping  him  in  breath,  and 

wake 
Only  to  ride  to  cover." 

Not  the  less 
The  grandsire   pondered.      "Ay,   the 

boy  must  work 
Or  SPEND  ;  and  1  must  let  him  spend ; 

just  stay 
Awhile  with  us,  and  then  from  time  to 

time 
Have  leave  to  be  away  with  those  fine 

folk 
With    whom,   these    many    years,    at 

school,  and  now, 
During  his  sojourn  in  the  foreign  towns. 
He  has  been  made  familiar."     Thus  a 

month 
Went  by.    They  liked  the  stirring  ways 

of  youth, 
The   quick    elastic    step,   and   joyous 

mind. 
Ever  expectant  of  it  knew  not  what. 
But  something   higher   than   has   e'er 

been  born 
Of  easy  slumber  and  sweet  competence. 
And  as  for  him,  the  while  they  thought 

and  thought, 
A  comfortable  instinct  let  him  know 
How  they  had  waited  for  him,  to  com- 
plete 
And  give  a  meaning  to  their  lives ;  and 

still 
At  home,  but  with  a  sense  of  newness 

there. 
And  frank  and  fresh  as  in  the  school- 
boy days, 
He  oft  —  invading  of  his  father's  haunts. 
The  study  where  he  passed  the  silent 

morn  — 
Would  sit,  devouring  with   a  greedy 

joy 
The  piled-up  books,  uncut  as  yet ;  or 

wake 


To  guide  with  him  by  night  the  tube, 

and  search. 
Ay,  think  to  find  new  stars  ;  then,  risen 

betimes, 
Would  ride  about  the  farm,   and  list 

the  talk 
Of  his  hale  grandsire. 

But  a  day  came  round. 

When,  after  peering  in  his  mother's 
room, 

Shaded  and  shuttered  from  the  light, 
he  oped 

A  door,  and  found  the  rosy  grand- 
mother 

Ensconced  and  happy  in  her  special 
pride. 

Her  store-room.  She  was  corking  syr- 
ups rare, 

And  fruits  all  sparkling  in  a  crystal 
coat. 

Here,  after  choice  of  certain  cates  well 
known. 

He,  sitting  on  her  bacon-chest  at  ease, 

Sang  as  he  watched  her,  till,  right 
suddenly. 

As  if  a  new  thought  came,  "  Goody," 
quoth  he, 

"  What,  think  you,  do  they  want  to  do 
with  me  ? 

What  have  they  planned  for  me  that  I 
should  do  ?" 

"  Do,  laddie !  "  quoth  she,  faltering, 
half  in  tears ; 

"Are  you  not  happy  with  us?  not  con- 
tent? 

Why  would  ye  go  away  ?  There  is  no 
need 

That  ye  should  do  at  all.  O,  bide  at 
home. 

Have  we  not  plenty?" 

"  Even  so,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  did  not  wish  to  go." 

"  Nay,  then,"  quoth  she, 
"  Be  idle  ;  let  me  see  your  blessed  face. 
What,  is  the  horse  your  father  chose 

for  you 
Not  to   your  mind?     He   is?     Well, 

well,  remain  ; 
Do  as  you  will,  so  you  but  do  it  here. 
You  shall  not  want  for  money." 


ii6 


LAURANCE. 


But,  his  arms 
Folding,    he    sat  and  twisted  up  his 

mouth 
With  comical  discomfiture. 

"  What,  then," 
She  sighed,  "what  is  it,  child,  that  you 

would  like?" 
"Why,"  said  he,  "farming." 

And  she  looked  at  him, 
Fond,  foolish  woman  that  she  was,  to 

find 
Some  fitness  in  the  worker   for    the 

work. 
And  she  found  none.     A  certain  grace 

there  was 
Of    movement,    and    a  beauty  in   the 

f.ice, 
Sun-browned    and    healthful    beauty, 

that  had  come 
From    his    grave    father ;     and    she 

thought,   "Good  lack, 
A  farmer '.  he  is  fitter  for  a  duke. 
He  walks  —  why,  how  he  walks!   if  I 

should  meet 
One  like  him,   whom  I  knew   not,    I 

should  ask, 
And  who  may  that  be?"     So  the  fool- 
ish thought 
Found  words.      Quoth  she,  half  laugh- 
ing, half  ashamed, 
"  We  planned  to  make  of  you  —  a  gen- 
tleman." 
And,  with  engaging  sweet  audacity,  — 
She  thought  it  nothing  less,  —  he,  look- 
ing up. 
With  a  smile  in  his  blue  eyes,  replied 

to  her, 
"And  haven't  you  done  it?"    Quoth 

she,  lovingly, 
"  I  think  we  have,  laddie  ;  I  think  we 

have." 
"Then,"  quoth  he,  "I  may  do  what 

best  I  like ; 
It  makes  no  matter.     Goody,  you  were 

wise 
To  help  me  in  it,  and  to  let  me  f.irm ; 
I  think  of  getting  into  mischief  else  !  " 
"No!  dove,  laddie?"  quoth  the  dame, 

and  laughed. 
*'  But  ask  my  grandfather,"  the  youth 
went  on, 


"To  let  me  have  the  farm  he  bought 

last  year. 
The  little  one,  to  manage.     I  like  land  ; 
I  want  some."     And  she,  womanlike, 

gave  way, 
Convinced ;    and  promised,   and  made 

good  her  word, 
And  that  same  night  upon  the  matter 

spoke. 
In  presence  of  the  father  and  the  son. 


"Roger,"  quoth  she,  "our  Laurance 

wants  to  farm  ; 
"  I  think  he  might  do  worse."     The 

father  sat 
Mute,  but  right  glad.     The  grandson, 

breaking  in. 
Set  all  his  wish  and  his  ambition  forth  ; 
F.ut  cunningly  the  old  man  hid  his  joy. 
And  made  conditions  with  a  faint  de- 
mur. 
Then,     pausing,     "  Let    your    father 

speak,"  quoth  he ; 
"  I  am  content  if  he  is."     At  his  word 
The  parson  took  him ;  ay,  and,  parson 

like. 
Put  a  religious  meaning  in  the  work, 
Man's  earliest  work,   and  wished  his 

son  God  speed. 


Thus  all  were  satisfied,  and,  day  by 

day. 
For  two  sweet  years  a  happy  course 

was  theirs  ; 
Happy,    but    yet    the    fortunate,    the 

young 
Loved,  and  much  cared-for,  entered  on 

his  strife,  — 
A   stirring  of  the   heart,  a  quickening 

keen 
Of  sight  and  hearing  to  the  delicate 
BeauV  and  music  of  an  altered  world,  — ■ 
Began  to  walk  in  that  mysterious  light 
Which  doth  reveal  and  yet  transform  ; 

which  gives 
Destinv,  sorrow,  youth,  and  death,  an-J 

life, 
Intenser  meaning  ;  in  disquieting 
Lifts  up  ;  a  shining  light :  men  call  it 

Love. 


LAURANCE. 


"7 


Fair,  modest  eyes  had  she,  the  girl  he 

loved ; 
A   silent  creature,    thoughtful,    grave, 

sincere. 
She  never  turned  from  him  with  sweet 

caprice, 
Nor    changing    moved    his    soul    to 

troublous  hope. 
Nor  dropped  for  him  her  heavy  lashes 

low, 
But  excellent  in  youthful  grace  came 

up;X 
And,  ere  his  words  were  ready,  passing 

on, 
Had  left  him  all  a-tremble  ;  yet  made 

sure 
That  by  her  ovni  true  will,  and  fixed 

intent. 
She  he'id  him  thus  remote.    Therefore, 

albeit 
He  knew  she  did  not  love  him,  yet  so 

long 
As  of  a  rival  unaware,  he  dwelt 
All  in  the  present,  without  fear,  or  hope, 
Enthralled  and  whelmed  in   the  deep 

sea  of  love. 
And  could  not  get  his  head  above  its 

wave 
To  searcli  the  far  horizon,  or  to  mark 
Whereto  it  drifted  him. 


So  long,  so  long  ; 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  came  the  ruthless 

fate. 
Showed  him  a  bitter  truth,  and  brought 

him  bale 
All  in  the  tolling  out  of  noon. 


'Twasthus: 
Snow-time    was   come ;    it    had    been 

snowing  hard  ; 
Across  the  churchyard  path  he  walked  ; 

the  clock 
Began  to  strike,  and,  as  he  passed  the 

porch, 
Half  turning,    through    a    sense    that 

came  to  him 
As  of  some  presence  in  it,  he  beheld 
His  love,  and  she  had  come  for  shelter 

there  ; 
And  all  her  face  was  fair  with   rosy 

bloom, 


The  blush  of  happiness  ;  and  one  held 

up 
Her  ungloved  hand  in  both  his  own, 

and  stooped 
Toward  it,  sitting  by  her.     O,  her  eyes 
Were  full  of  peace  and  tender  light: 

they  looked 
One  moment  in  the  ungraced   lover's 

face 
While   he   was   passing   in  the  snow; 

and  he 
Received  the  story,  while  he  raised  his 

;     hat 
Retiring.     Then  the  clock   left   off  to 

strike. 
And  that  was  all.     It  snowed,  and  he 

walked  on  ; 
And  in  a  certain  way  he  marked  the 

snow. 
And  walked,  and  came  upon  the  open 

heath  ; 
And  in  a  certain  way  he  marked  the 

cold, 
And  walked  as  one  that  had  no  starting- 
place 
Might  walk,  but  not  to  any  certain  goal. 


And  he  strode  on  toward  a  hollow  part. 

Where  from  the  hillside  gravel  had 
been  dug, 

And  he  was  conscious  of  a  cry,  and  went, 

Dulled  in  his  sense,  as  though  he 
heard  it  not ; 

Till  a  small  farmhouse  drudge,  a  half- 
grown  girl. 

Rose  from  the  shelter  of  a  drift  that 
lay 

Against  the  bushes,  crying,  "God!  O 
God, 

O  my  good  God,  He  sends  us  help  at 
last." 


Then,  looking  hard  upon  her,  came  to 
him 

The  power  to  feel  and  to  perceive. 
Her  teeth 

Chattered,  and  all  her  limbs  with  shud- 
dering failed, 

And  in  her  threadbare  shawl  was 
wrapped  a  child 

That  looked  on  him  with  wondering, 
wistful  eyes. 


tiS 


LAURAXCE. 


I  thought  to  freeze,"  the  girl  broke 

out  with  tears ; 
''Kind  sir,  kind  sir,"  and  she  held  out 

the  child, 
As  praying  him  to  take  it  ;  and  he  did  ; 
And  gave  to  her  the  shawl,  and  swathed 

his  charge 
In  the  foldings  of  his  plaid  ;  and  when 

it  thrust 
Its  small  round  face  against  his  breast, 

and  felt 
With  small  red  hands  for  warmth,  un- 
bearable 
Pains  of  great  pity  rent  his  straitened 

heart, 
For  the  poor  upland  dwellers  had  been 

out 
Since  niorning  dawn,  at  early  milking- 

time, 
Wandering  and  stumbling  in  the  drift. 

And  now, 
Lamed  with  a  fall,  half  crippled  by  the 

cold, 
Hardly  prevailed  his  arm  to  drag  Iter 

on, 
That  ill-clad  child,  who  yet  the  younger 

child 
Had   motherly   cared   to   shield.       So 

toiling  through 
The   great   white    storm  coming,    and 

coming  yet. 
And  coming  till  the  world  confounded 

sat 
With    all    her    fair    familiar   features 

gone. 
The  mountains  muffled  in  an  eddying 

swirl, 
He  led  or  bore  them,  and  the  little  one 
Peered  from  her  shelter,  pleased ;  but 

oft  would  mourn 
The  elder,  "They  will  beat  me:  O  my 

can, 
I  left  my  can  of  milk  upon  the  moor." 
And  he  compared  her  trouble  with  his 

own. 
And  had  no  heart  to  speak.     And  yet 

'twas  keen  ; 
It  filled   her  to  the   putting  down  of 

pain 
And     hunger, — what     could     his    do 

more  ? 

He  brought 
The  children  to  their  home,  and  sud- 
denly 


Regained  himself,  and,  wondering  at 

himself, 
That  he  had  borne,  and  yet  been  dumb 

so  long. 
The  weary  wailing  of  the  girl,  he  paid 
Money  to  buy  her  pardon ;  heard  them 

say, 
"  Peace,  we  have  feared  for  you ;  for- 
get the  milk, 
It  is  no  matter  !  "  and  went  forth  again 
And  waded  in  the  snow,  and  quietly 
Considered  in  his  patience  what  to  do 
With  all  the  dull  remainder  of  his  days. 


With  dusk  he  was  at  home,  and  felt  it 

good 
To   hear   his  kindred    talking,    for   it 

broke 
A  mocking  endless  echo  in  his  soul, 
"It  is  no  matter!"  and  he  could  not 

choose 
But  mutter,  though  the  weariness  o'er- 

canie 
His  spirit,   "Peace,  it  is  no   matter; 

peace. 
It  is  no  matter!"'     For  he  felt  that  all 
Was  as  it  had  been,  and  his  father's 

heart 
Was  easy,  knowing  not  how  that  same 

day 
Hope  with  her  tender  colors  and  de- 
light 
(He  should  not  care  to  have  him  know) 

were  dead  ; 
Yea,  to  all  these,  his  nearest  and  most 

dear. 
It  was  no  matter.     And  he  heard  them 

talk 
Of  timber    felled,    of    certain    fruitful 

fields. 
And  profitable  markets. 

All  for  him 
Their    plans,    and     yet    the     echoes 

swarmed  and  swam 
About  his  head,  whenever  there  was 

pause ; 
"  It  is  no  matter  !  "     And  his  greater 

self 
Arose  in  him  and  fought.     "  It  matters 

much, 
It  matters  all  to  these,  that  not  to-day 
Nor  ever  they  should  know  it.     1  will 

hide 


LAURANCE. 


119 


Tlie  wound  ;  ay,  hide  it  with  a  sleepless 

care. 
What !    shall    I   make   these   three   to 

drink  of  rue, 
Because  my  cup  is  bitter?"     And  he 

thrust 
Himself  in  thought  away,  and  made 

his  ears 
Hearken,  and   caused   his  voice,   that 

yet  did  seem 
Another,  to  make  answer,  when  they 

spoke, 
As  there  had  been  no  snow-storm,  and 

no  porch, 
And  no  despair. 

So  this  went  on  awhile 
Until  the  snow  had  melted  from  the 

wold. 
And  he,  one  noonday,  wandering  up  a 

lane, 
Met  on  a  turn  the  woman  whom  he 

loved. 
Then,  even  to  trembling  he  was  moved  ; 

his  speech 
Faltered  ;    but,    when     the     common 

kindly  words 
Of    greeting    were    all    said,  and  she 

passed  on. 
He  could  not  bear  her  sweetness  and 

his  ]5ain. 
"Muriel!"   he  cried;    and  when   she 

heard  her  name, 
She  turned.     "  You  know  I  love  you," 

he  broke  out. 
She  answered,  "  Yes,"  and  sighed. 

"  O,  pardon  me. 
Pardon  me,"    quoth   the   lover;    "let 

me  rest 
In   certainty,   and  hear   it    from   your 

mouth  : 
Is  he   with  whom   I  saw  you  once  of 

late 
Tv  call  you  wife ? "     "I  hope  so,"  she 

replied ; 
And  over  all  her  face  the  rose-bloom 

came. 
As,  ihinking  on  that  other,  unaware 
He\    eyes    waxed    tender.     When   he 

looked  on  her. 
Standing  to  answer  him,  with   lovely 

shame, 
Submiss,  and  yet  not  his,  a  passionate, 


A  quickened  sense  of  his  great  impo- 
tence 

To  drive  away  tlie  doom  got  hold  on 
him  ; 

He  set  his  teeth  to  force  the  unbear- 
able 

Misery  back  ;  his  wide-awakened  eyes 

Flashed  as  with  flame. 

And  she,  all  overawed 
And  mastered  by  his  manhood,  waited 

yet. 
And  trembled  at  the    deep  she  could 

not  sound,  — 
A   passionate   nature  in  a  storm,  —  a 

heart 
Wild  with  a  mortal  pain,and  in  the  grasp 
Of  au  iiTunortal  love. 

"  Farewell,"  he  said. 

Recovering  words  ;  and,  when  she  gave 
her  hand, 

"  My  thanks  for  your  good  candor  ;  for 
I  feel 

That  it  has  cost  you  something '' 
Then,  the  blush 

Yet  on  her  face,  she  said :  "  It  was 
your  due : 

But  keep  this  matter  from  your  friends 
and  kin, 

We  would  not  have  it  known."  Then, 
cold  and  proud, 

Because  there  leaped  from  under  his 
straight  lids. 

And  instantly  was  veiled,  a  keen  sur- 
prise, — 

"  He  wills  it,  and  I  therefore  think  it 
rt-ell." 

Thereon  they  parted  ;  but  from  that 
time  forth. 

Whether  they  met  on  festal  eve,  in  field. 

Or  at  the  church,  she  ever  bore  her- 
self 

Proudly,  for  she  had  felt  a  certain  pain  ; 

The  disapproval  hastily  betrayed 

And  quickly  hidden  hurl  her.  "'Twas 
a  grace," 

She  thought,  "to  tell  this  man  the 
thing  he  asked. 

And  he  rewards  me  with  surprise.  I 
like 

No  one's  surjirise,  and  least  of  all  be- 
stowed 

Where  lie  bestowed  it." 


LAURANCE. 


But  the  spring;  came  on. 
Looking  to  wed  in  April, all  her  thoughts 
Grew  loving  ;  she  would  fain  the  world 

had  waxed 
More  happy  with  her  happiness,   and 

oft 
Walking  among  the  flowery  woods  she 

felt 
Their  lovehness  reach  down  into  her 

heart, 
And  knew  with  them  the  ecstasies  of 

growth, 
The   rapture   that  was    satisfied    with 

light, 
The  pleasure  of  the  leaf  in  exquisite 
Expansion,  through  the  lovely,  longed- 
for  spring. 


And  as  for  him  —  (Some  narrow  hearts 

there  are 
That  suffer  blight  when  that  they  fed 

upon. 
As  something  to  complete  their  being, 

fails. 
And  they  retire  into  their  holds  and 

pine,  . 

And  long  restrained  grow  stem.     But 

some  there  are 
That  in  a  sacred  want  and  hunger  rise, 
And  draw  the  misery  home  and  live 

with  it. 
And  excellent  in  honor  wait,  and  will 
That   somewhat  good  should   yet   be 

found  in  it, 
Else   wherefore   were    they    bom?)  — 

and  as  for  him, 
He  loved  her,  but  his  peace  and  welfare 

made 
The    sunshine    of    three    lives.      The 

cheerful  grange 
Threw  open  wide  its  hospitable  doors 
And  drew  m  guests  for  him.     The  gar- 
den flowers, 
Sweet  budding  wonders,  all  were  set 

for  him. 
In  him  the  eyes  at  home  were  satisfied, 
And  if   he  did  but  laugh  the  ear  ap- 
proved. 


What  then  ?     He  dwelt  among  them  as 

of  old, 
And  taught  his  mouth  to  smile. 


And  time  went  on, 

Till  on  a  moming,  when  the  perfect 
Spring 

Rested  among  her  leaves,  he,  journey- 
ing home 

After  short  sojourn  in  a  neighboring 
town. 

Stopped  at  the  little  station  on  the 
line 

That  ran  beween  his  woods ;  a  lonely 
place 

And  quiet,  and  a  woman  and  a  child 

Got  out.  He  noted  them,  but,  walk- 
ing on 

Quickly,  went  back  into  the  wood,  im- 
pelled 

By  hope,  for,  passing,  he  had  seen  his 
love. 

And  she  was  sitting  on  a  rustic  seat 

That  overlooked  the  line,  and  he  de- 
sired. 

With  longing  indescribable,  to  look 

Upon  her  face  again.  And  he  drew 
near. 

She  was  right  happy ;  she  was  waiting 
there. 

He  felt  that  she  was  waiting  for  her 
lord. 

She  cared  no  whit  if  Laurance  went  or 
stayed, 

But  answered  when  he  spoke,  and 
dropped  her  cheek 

In  her  fair  hand. 

And  he,  not  ab'e  yet 

To  force  himself  away,  and  never- 
more 

Behold  her,  gathered  blossom,  prim- 
rose flowers. 

And  wild  anemone,  for  many  a  clump 

Grew  all  about  him,  and  the  hazel- 
rods 

Were  nodding  with  their  catkins.  But 
he  heard 

The  stopping  train,  and  felt  that  he 
must  go ; 

His  time  was  come.  There  was  naught 
else  to  do 

Or  hope  for.  With  the  blossom  he 
drew  near, 

And  would  have  had  her  take  it  from 
his  hand ; 

But  she,  half  lost  in  thought,  held  out 
her  own, 


LAURANCE. 


And  then,  remembering  him  and  his 

long  love, 
She  said,  "  I  thank  you ;  pray  you  now 

forget. 
Forget  me,  Laurance,"  and  her  lovely 

eyes 
Softened ;     but     he     was     dumb,    till 

through  the  trees 
Suddenly  broke  upon  their  quietude 
The    woman    and    her    child.        And 

Muriel  said, 
"What  will  you?"     She  made  answer 

quick  and  keen, 
"Your  name,  my  lady  ;  'tis  your  name 

I  want, 
Tell  nie   your  name."     Not  startled, 

not  displeased. 
But  with  a  musing  sweetness  on  her 

mouth, 
As  if  considering  in  how  short  a  while 
It  would  be  changed,  she  lifted  up  her 

face 
And  gave  it,  and  the  little  child  drew 

near 
And  pulled  her  gown,  and  prayed  her 

for  the  flowers. 
Then  Laurance,  not  content  to  leave 

them  so. 
Nor    yet   to  wait    the    coming    lover, 

spoke  : 
"  Your  errand  with  this  lady  ?  " — "  And 

your  right 
To  ask  it?"  she  broke  out  with  sud- 
den heat 
And  passion:  "What  is  that  to  you? 

Poor  child! 
Madam!"     And  Muriel  lifted  up  her 

face 
And  looked,  —  they  looked  into  each 

other's  eyes. 


"  That  man  who  comes,"  the  clear- 
voiced  woman  cried,  — 

"That  man  with  whom  you  think  to 
wed  so  soon,  — 

You  must  not  heed  him.  What!  the 
world  is  full 

Of  men,  and  some  are  good,  and  most, 
God  knows, 

I3etter  than  he,  —  that  I  should  say  it! 
—  far 

Better."  And  down  her  face  the  large 
tears  ran, 


And  Muriel's  wild  dilated  eyes  looked 

up, 
Taking  a  terrible  meamng    from  her 

words ; 
And  Laurance  stared  about  him,  half 

in  doubt 
If  this  were  real,  for  all  things  were  so 

blithe. 
And   soft  air  tossed  the  little  flowers 

about ; 
The  child  was  singing,  and  the  black- 
birds piped. 
Glad  in  fair  sunshine.     And  the  women 

both 
Were  quiet,   gazing  in    each    other's 

eyes. 

He    found    his    voice,    and    spoke : 

"This  is  not  well. 
Though   whom   you   speak   of   should 

have  done  you  wrong  ; 
A  man  that  could  desert  and  plan  to 

wed 
Will  not  his  purpose  yield  to  God  and 

right. 
Only  to   law.     You,  whom   I  pity  so 

much, 
If  you  be  come  this  day  to  urge  a  claim. 
You  will  not  tell  me  that  your  claim 

will  hold ; 
'Tis  only,  if  I  read  aright,  the  old, 
Sorrowful,  hateful  story !  " 

Muriel  sighed. 
With  a  dull  patience  that  he  marvelled 

at: 
"  Be  plain  with  me.     I  know  not  what 

to  think. 
Unless  you  are  his  wife.     Are  you  his 

wife  ? 
Be    plain    with    me."      And    all    too 

quietly, 
With  running  down  of  tears,  the  an- 
swer came, 
"Ay,  madam,  ay!  the  worse  for  him 

and  me" 
Then    Muriel   heard  her  lover's   foot 

anear. 
And  cried  upon  him  with  a  bitter  cry. 
Sharp  and  despairing.     And  those  two 

stood  back. 
With  such  affright  and  violent  auger 

stirred,  [side, 

He  broke  from  out  the  thicket  to  her 


LAURANCE. 


Not  knowing.     But,  her  hands  before 

her  face, 
She   sat ;    and,    stepping    close,    that 

woman  came 
And  faced   him.     Then   said   Muriel, 

"  O  my  heart, 
Herbertl" — and  he   was  dumb,   and 

ground  liis  teeth. 
And  lifted  up  his  hand  and  looked  at  it. 
And  at  the  woman ;   but  a  man  was 

there 
Who  whirled  her  from  her  place,  and 

thrust  himself 
Between    them  ;    he    was    strong,  —  a 

stalwart  man : 
And  Herbert,  thinking  on  it,  knew  his 

name. 
"  What  good,"  quoth  he,  "  though  you 

and  I  should  strive 
And   wrestle   all   this   April   day  ?     A 

word, 
And  not  a  blow,  is  what  these  women 

want : 
Master  yourself,  and  say  it."     But  he, 

weak 
With  passion  and  great  anguish,  flung 

himself 
Upon  the  seat  and  cried,  "  O  lost,  my 

love  ! 
O  Muriel,  Muriel !  "     And  the  woman 

spoke, 
"  Sir,  'twas  an  evil  day  you  wed  with 

me ; 
And  you  were  young ;  I   know  it,  sir, 

right  well. 
Sir,  I  have  worked  ;  I  have  not  troubled 

you. 
Not  for  myself,  nor  for  your  child.     I 

know 
We   are    not    equal"      "Hold!"    he 

cried  ;  "  have  done  ; 
Vour  still,  tame  words  are  worse  than 

hate  or  scorn. 
Get  from  me!     Ay,  my  wife,  my  wife, 

indeed ! 
All's   done.     You  hear  it,   Muriel;  if 

you  can, 
O  sweet,  forgive  me." 

Then  the  woman  moved 
Slowly  away  ;  her  little  singing  child 
Went     in     her    wake  ;     and    Muriel 
dropped  her  hands, 


And  sat  before  these  two  that  loved  her 

so, 
Mute  and    unheeding.       There    were 

angry  words. 
She  knew,  but  vet  she  could  not  hear 

the  words ; 
And  afterwards   the    man    she    loved 

stooped  down 
And  kissed   her  forehead   once,    and 

then  withdrew 
To   look   at   her,  and  with   a  gesture 

pray 
Her  pardon.     And  she  tried  to  speak, 

but  failed, 
And  presently,  and  soon,  O,  —  he  was 

gone. 

She  heard  him  go,  and  Laurance,  still 

as  stone, 
Remained  beside  her ;  and  she  put  her 

hand 
Before  her  face  again,  and  afterward 
She  heard  a  voice,  as  if,  a  long  way 

off. 
Some  one  entreated,  but  she  could  not 

heed. 
Thereon  he  drew  her  hand  away,  and 

raised 
Her  passive  from  her  seat.     So  then 

she  knew 
That  he  would  have  her  go  with  him, 

go  home,  — 
It  was  not  far  to  go,  —  a  dreary  home. 
A  crippled  aunt,  of  birth  and  lineage 

high. 
Had,  in  her  youth,   and  for  a  place 

and  home,  [girl 

Married  the  stern  old  rector;  and  the 
Dwelt  with  them  :  she  was  orphaned, 

—  had  no  kin 
Nearer    than    they.       And    Laurance 

brought  her  in. 
And  spared  to  her  the  telling  of  this 

woe. 
He  sought  her  kindred  where  they  sat 

apart. 
And   laid   before   them   all    the    cruel 

thing. 
As  he  had  seen  it.    After,  he  retired ; 
And  restless,  and  not  master  of  him- 
self. 
He  day  and  night  haunted  the  rectory 

lanes ; 


LAURA  NCR. 


123 


And  all  things,  even  to  the  spreading 

out 
Of  leaves,  their  flickering  shadows  on 

the  ground, 
Or  sailing  of  the  slow,  white  cloud,  or 

peace 
And  glory  and  great  light  on  mountam 

heads,  — 
All  things  were  leagued  against  hnn, 

ministered 
By  likeness  or  by  contrast  to  his  love. 

But  what  was  that  to  Muriel,  though  her 

peace 
He  would  have  purchased  for  her  with 

all  prayers, 
And     costly,     passionate,     despairing 

tears  ? 
O,  wh;it  to  her  that  he  should  find  it 

worse 
To  bear  her   life's   undoing   than   his 

own? 

She  let  him  see  her,  and  she  made  no 

moan. 
But   talked   full  calmly  of  indifferent 

tilings. 
Which  when  he  heard,  and  marked  the 

faded  eyes 
And  lovely  wasted  cheek,  he  started  up 
With    "This    I    cannot    bear!"    and 

shamed  to  feel 
His  manhood  giving  way,  and  utterly 
Subdued  by  her  sweet  patience  and  his 

pain. 
Made    haste    and    from    the    window 

sprang,  and  paced, 
Battling  and  chiding  with  himself,  the 

maze. 

She  suffered,  and  he  could  not  make 

her  well 
For  all  his  loving  ;  —  he  was  naught  to 

her. 
And   now  his    passionate  nature,   set 

astir. 
Fought  with  the  pain  that  could  not  be 

endured ; 
And  like  a  wild  thing,  suddenly  aware 
That    it    is    caged,    which    flings   and 

bruises  all 
Its  body   at    the    bars,    he   rose,  and 

raged 


Against  the  misery :  then  he  made  all 
worse 

With  tears.  But  when  he  came  to  her 
again. 

Willing  to  talk  as  they  had  talked  be- 
fore, 

She  sighed,  and  said,  with  that  strange 
quietness, 

"  I  know  you  have  been  crying  :  "  and 
she  bent 

Her  own  fair  head  and  wept. 

She  felt  the  cold  — 
The  freezing  cold  that  deadened  all  her 

hfe  — 
Give  way  a  little  ;  for  this  passionate 
Sorrow,  and  all  for  her,  relieved  her 

heart. 
And   brought   some    natural    warmth, 

some  natural  tears. 


And  after  that,  though  oft  he  sought 

her  door. 
He  might  not  see  her.     First  they  said 

to  him, 
"She  is  not  well;"    and   afterwards, 

"  Her  wish 
Is  ever  to  be  quiet."     Then  in  haste 
They  took  her  from  the  place,  because 

so  fast 
She    faded.      As    for    him,  —  though 

youth  and  strength 
Can  bear  the  weight  as  of  a  world,  at 

last 
The  burden  of  it  tells,  —  he  heard  it 

said. 
When  autumn  came,  "The  poor  sweet 

thing  will  die : 
That    shock    was    mortal."     And    he 

cared  no  more 
To  hide,  if  yet  he  could  have  hidden, 

the  blight 
That  was  laying  wast3  his  heart.     He 

journeyed  south 
To  Devon,  where  she  dwelt  with  other 

kin. 
Good,  kindly  women  ;  and  he  wrote  to 

them, 
Praying  that  he  might  see  her  ere  she 

died. 


124 


LA  URA  N'CE. 


So  in  her  patience  she  permitted  him 
To  be  about  her,  for  it  eiised  liis  heart ; 
And  as  for  her  that  was  to  die  so  soon, 
What  did  it  signify?    She  let  him  weep 
Some  passionate  tears  beside  her  couch, 

she  spoive 
Pitying  words,  and  then  they  made  him 

go- 
It  was  enough,  they  said  ;  her  time  was 

short. 
And  he  had  seen  her.     He  had  seen, 

and  felt 
The  bitterness  of  death  ;  but  he  went 

home, 
Being  satisfied  in   that   great  longing 

now. 
And  able  to  endure  what  might  befall. 

And  Muriel  lay,  and  faded  with  the 
year ; 

She  lay  at  the  door  of  death,  that 
opened  not 

To  take  her  in ;  for  when  the  days 
once  more 

Began  a  little  to  increase,  she  felt,  — 

And  it  was  sweet  to  her,  she  was  so 
young,  — 

She  felt  a  longing  for  the  time  of  flow- 
ers. 

And  dreamed  that  she  was  walking  in 
that  wood 

With  her  two  feet  among  the  prim- 
roses. 

Then  when  the  violet  opened,  she  rose 
up 

And  walked.  The  tender  leaf  and  ten- 
der light 

Did  solace  her;  but  she  was  white  and 
wan, 

The  shadow  of  that  Muriel  in  the  wood 

Who  listened  to  those  deadly  words. 

And  now 
Empurpled  seas  began  to  blush  and 

bloom, 
Doves  made  sweet  moaning,  and  the 

gxielder-rose 
In  a  great  stillness  dropped,  and  ever 

dropped, 
Her  wealth  about  her  feet,  and  there  it 

lav. 
And  drifted  not  at  all.    The  lilac  spread 


Odorous  essence  round  her;  and  full 

oft. 
When    Muriel    felt    the   warmth    her 

pulses  cheer. 
She,   faded,  sat  among   the   May-tide 

bloom. 
And  with  a  reverent  quiet  in  her  soul, 
Took    back  —  it    was    His  will  —  her 

time,  and  sat 
Learning  again  to  live. 

Thus  as  she  sat 
Upon  a  day,  she  was  aware  of  one 
Who  at  a  distance  marked  her.     This 

again 
Another  day,  and  she  was  vexed,  for 

yet 
She  longed  for  quiet ;  but  she  heard  a 

foot 
Pass  once  again,  and  beckoned  through 

the  trees. 
"Laurance!"      And  all  impatient  of 

unrest 
And  strife,   ay,  even   of  the  sight  of 

them. 
When  he  drew  near,  with  tired,  tired 

lips. 
As  if  her  soul  upbraided  him,  she  said, 
"  Why   have   you   done   this    thing?" 

He  answered  her, 
"  I  am  not  always  master  in  the  fight : 
I  could  not  help  it." 

"  What !  "  she  sighed,  "  not  yet ! 
O,  I  am  sorrj' ; "  and  she  talked  to  hinj 
As  one  who  looked  to  live,  imploring 

him,  — 
"  Try  to  forget  me.     Let  your  fancy 

dwell 
Elsewhere,  nor  me  enrich   with  it  so 

long ; 
It  wearies  me  to  think  of  this  your  love. 
Forget  me!  " 

He  made  answer,  "  I  will  try : 
The  task  will  take  me  all  my  life  to 

learn. 
Or,  were  it  learned,  I  know  not  how  to 

live ; 
This   pain   is   part   of   life   and  being 

now,  — 
It  is  myself :  but  yet  —  but  I  will  try." 
Then  she  spoke  friendly  to  him,  —  of 

his  home, 


LAURANCE. 


"5 


His  father,  and  the  old,  brave,  loving 

folk; 
She   bade   him   think   of   them.     And 

not  her  words, 
But  having  seen  her,  satisfied  his  heart. 
He  left  her,  and  went  home  to  live  his 

life, 
And  all  the  summer  heard  it  said  of 

her, 
"  Yet,  she  grows  stronger ; "   but  when 

autumn  came 
Again  she  drooped. 

A  bitter  thing  it  is 

To  lose  at  once  the  lover  and  the  lOve  ; 

For  who  receiveth  not  may  yet  keep 
life 

In  the  spirit  with  bestowal.  But  for 
her. 

This  Muriel,  all  was  gone.  The  man 
she  loved. 

Not  only  from  her  present  had  with- 
drawn. 

But  from  her  past,  and  there  was  no 
such  man. 

There  never  had  been. 


He  was  not  as  one 
Who  takes  love  in,  like  some   sweet 

bird,  and  holds 
The  winged  fluttering  stranger  to  his 

breast, 
Till,  after  transient  stay,  all  unaware 
It  leaves  him  :  it  has  flown.     No  ;  this 

may  live 
In    memory,  —  loved   till   death.      He 

was  not  vile  ; 
For  who   by   choice   would  part  with 

that  pure  bird. 
And  lose  the  exultation  of  its  song? 
He  had  not  strength  of  will  to  keep  it 

fast. 
Nor  warmth  of  heart  to  keep  it  warm, 

nor  life 
Of  thought  to  make  the  echo  sound  for 

him 
After  the  song  was  done.     Pity  that 

man  : 
His  music  is  all  flown,  and  he  forgets 
The    sweetness   of   it,    till   at   last   he 

thinks 
'Twas  no  great  matter.     But  he  was 

not  vile, 


Only  a  thing  to  pity  most  in  man, 
Weak,  —  only  poor,  and,  if  he  knew  it, 

undone. 
But  Herbert!    When  she  mused  on  it, 

her  soul 
Would  fain  have  hidden  him  for  ever- 
more, 
Even  from  herself,  —  so  pure  of  speech, 

so  frank, 
So  full  of  household  kindness.     Ah,  so 

good 
And  true  !     A  little,  she  had  sometimes 

thought, 
Despondent  for  himself,  but  strong  of 

faith 
In  God,  and  faith  in  her,  this  man  had 

seemed. 


Ay,  he  was  gone!  and  she  whom  he 

had  wed, 
As  Muriel  learned,  was  sick,  was  poor, 

was  sad. 
And  Muriel  wrote  to  comfort  her,  and 

send. 
From  her  small  store,  money  to  help 

her  need. 
With,    "  Pray    you   keep    it    secret." 

Then  the  whole 
Of  the  cruel  tale  was  told. 

What  more?  She  died. 
Her  kin,  profuse  of  thanks,  not  bitterly, 
Wrote  of  the  end.     "  Our  sister  fam 

had  seen 
Her  husband  ;  prayed  him  sore  to  come. 

But  no. 
And  then  she  prayed  him  that  he  would 

forgive. 
Madam,  her  breaking  of  the  truth  to 

you. 
Dear  madam,   he  was  angry,  yet  we 

think 
He  might  have  let  her  see,  before  she 

died. 
The  words  she  wanted,  but  he  did  not 

write 
Till  she  was  gone,  — '  I   neither  can 

forgive. 
Nor  would  I  if  I  could.'  " 


"  Patience,  my  heart ! 
And  this,  then,  is  the  man  I  loved!  " 


126 


LAURANCE. 


But  yet 
He  sought  a  lower  level,  for  he  wrote, 
Telling  the  story  with  a  different  hue,  — 
Telling   of    freedom.       He   desired   to 

come, 
"  For  now,"  said  he,  "  O  love,  may  all 

be  well." 
And  she  rose  up  against  it  in  her  soul, 
For  she  despised  him.     And  with  pas- 
sionate tears 
Of  shame,  she  wrote,  and  only  wrote 

these  words,  — 
"  Herbert,  I  will  not  see  you." 

Then  she  drooped 
Again  ;  it  is  so  bitter  to  despise  ; 
And  all   her  strength,    when   autumn 

leaves  down  dropped. 
Fell  from  her.     "  Ah  !  "   she  thought, 

"  I  rose  up  once, 
I   cannot   rise   up   now ;    here   is   the 

end." 
And  all  her  kinsfolk  thought,    "  It  is 

the  end." 

But  when  that  other  heard,  "  It  is  the 
end," 

His  heart  was  sick,  and  he,  as  by  a 
power 

Far  stronger  than  himself,  was  driven 
to  her. 

Reason  rebelled  against  it,  but  his  will 

Required  it  of  him  with  a  craving 
strong 

As  life,  and  passionate  though  hope- 
less pain. 

She,  when  she  saw  his  face,  considered 

him 
Full  quietly,  let  all  excuses  pass 
Not    answered,    and    considered    yet 

again. 

"He   had   heard   that   she   was  sick; 

what  could  he  do 
But  come,  and  ask  her  pardon  that  he 

came?" 
What  could  he  do,  indeed?  — a  weak 

white  girl 
Held  all  his  heartstrings  in  her  small 

white  hand ; 
His  youth,    and   power,    and   majesty 

were  hers. 
And  not  his  own. 


She  looked,  and  pitied  him, 
Then  spoke  :   ''  He  loves  me  with  a  love 

that  lasts. 
Ah  me !  that  I  might  get  away  from  it, 
Or,  better,  hear  it  said  that  love  is  not, 
And  then  I  could  have  rest.     My  time 

is  short, 
I    tk'nk,  —  so    short."      And    roused 

against  himself 
In  stormy  wiath,  that  it  should  be  his 

doom 
Her  to  disquiet  whom  he  loved,  —  ay, 

her 
For  whom  he  would  have  given  all  his 

rest, 
If  there  were  any  left  to  give,  —  he 

took 
Her  words  up  bravely,  promising  once 

more 
Absence,     and    praying    pardon ;    but 

some  tears 
Dropped  quietly  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Remain," 
She  said,  "  for  there  is  something  to  be 

told, 
Some  words  that  you  must  hear. 

"  And  first,  hear  this : 
God  has  been  good  to  me ;  you  must 

not  think 
That  I  despair.     There  is  a  quiet  time 
Like  evening  in  my  soul.     I  have  no 

heart. 
For  cruel  Herbert  killed  it  long  ago. 
And  death  strides  on.     Sit,  then,  and 

give  your  mind 
To  listen,  and  your  eyes  to  look  at  me. 
Look  at  my  face,  Laurance,  how  white 

it  is; 
Look  at  my  hand,  —  my  beauty  is  all 

gone." 
And  Laurance  lifted  up  his  eyes ;  he 

looked, 
But  answered,  from  their  deeps   that 

held  no  doubt. 
Far   otherwise   than   she   had  w'illed : 

they  said, 
"Lovelier  than  ever." 

Yet  her  words  went  on. 
Cold,  and  so  quiet,    "  I   have  suffered 
much, 


LAURANCE. 


127 


And  I  would  fain  that  none  who  care 
for  me 

Should  suffer  a  like  pang  that  I  can 
spare. 

Therefore,"  said  she,  and  not  at  all 
could  blush, 

"  I  have  brought  my  mind  of  late  to 
think  of  this : 

That  since  your  life  is  spoilt  (not  will- 
ingly. 

My  God,  not  willingly  by  me),  'twere 
well 

To  give  you  choice  of  griefs. 

"  Were  it  not  best 
To  weep  for  a  dead  love,   and  after- 
wards 
Be  comforted  the  sooner,  that  she  died 
Remote,  and  left  not  in  your  house  and 

life 
Aught  to  remind  you?    That   indeed 

were  best. 
But  were  it  best  to  weep  for  a  dead 

wife, 
And  let  the  sorrow  spend  and  satisfy 
Itself  with  all  expression,  and  so  end? 
I  think  not  so;  but  if  for  you 'tis  best. 
Then,  —  do  not  answer  witli  too  sudden 

words : 
It  matters  much  to  you ;  not  much,  not 

much 
To  me,  —  then  truly  I  will  die   your 

wife ; 
I  will  marry  you.' ' 

What  was  he  like  to  say, 
But,  overcome  with  love  and  tears,  to 

choose 
The   keener  sorrow,  —  take  it   to   his 

heart. 
Cherish  it,   make  it  part  of  him,  and 

watch 
Those   eyes,    that  were  his  light,   till 

they  should  close? 

He  answered  her  with  eager,  faltering 

words, 
"  I  choose,  —  my  heart  is  yours,  —  die 

in  my  arms." 

But  was  it  well?    Truly,   at  first,  for 

him 
It  was  not  well :  he  saw  her  fade,  and 

cried, 


"  When  may  this  be?"    She  answered, 

"  When  you  will," 
And  cared  not  much,  for  very  faint  she 

grew. 
Tired  and  cold.     Oft  m  her  soul  she 

thought, 
"  If  I  could  Slip  away  before  the  ring 
Is  on  my  hand,  it  were  a  blessed  lot 
for  both,  —  a  blessed  thing  for  him, 

and  me." 

But  it  was  not  so ;   for  the  day  had 

come,  — 
Was  over :  days  and  months  had  come, 

and  Death,  — 
Within  whose   shadow  she   had   lain, 

which  made 
Earth  and  its  loves,  and  even  its  bitter' 

ness. 
Indifferent,  —  Death  withdrew  himself, 

and  life 
Woke  up,  and  found  that  it  was  folded 

fast. 
Drawn  to  another  life  forevermore. 
O,  what  a  waking !    After  it  there  came 
Great  silence.     She  got  up  once  more, 

in  spring. 
And  walked,  but  not  alone,  among  the 

flowers. 
She    thought  within   herself,    "What 

have  I  done? 
How  shall  I  do  the  rest?"     And  he, 

who  felt 
Her  inmost  thought,  was  silent  even  as 

she. 
"What  have  we  done?"  she  thought. 

But  as  for  him, 
When   she  began  to  look  him  in  the 

face, 
Considering,  "Thus  and  thus  his  feat- 
ures are," 
For  she  had  never  thought  on  them  be- 
fore, 
She  read  their  grave   repose    aright. 

She  knew 
That  in  the  stronghold  of  his   heart, 

held  back, 
Hidden  reserves  of   measureless  con- 
tent 
Kept  house  with  happy  thought,    for 

her  sake  mute. 

Most  patient  Muriel!  when  he  brought 
her  home. 


128 


LAURANCE. 


She  took  the  place  they  gave  her,  — 

strove  to  please 
His  kin,    and   did   not    fail ;    but   yet 

thought  on, 
"  What  have  I  done  ?  how  shall  I  do 

the  rest  ? 
Ah !  so  contented,  Laurance,  with  this 

wife 
That  loves  you  not,  for  all  the  stateli- 

ness 
And  grandeur  of  your  manhood,  and 

the  deeps 
In  your  blue  eyes."     And   after  that 

awhile 
She  rested  from  such  thinking,  put  it  by 
And    waited.      .She    had    thought    on 

death  before : 
But   no,    this   Muriel  was  not   yet   to 

die ; 
And   when   she   saw  her  little  tender 

babe, 
She  felt  how  much  the  happy  days  of 

life 
Outweigh  the  sorrowful.    A  tiny  thing, 
Whom  when  it  slept  the  loveiy  mother 

nursed 
With    reverent    love,   whom   when   it 

woke  she  fed 
And  wondered  at,  and  lost  herself  in 

long 
Rapture  of  watching,  and  contentment 

deep. 

Once  while  she  sat,  this  babe  upon  her 

knee, 
Her  husband  and  his  father  standing 

nigh, 
About   to   ride,    the   grandmother,   all 

pride 
And  consequence,  so  deep  in  learned 

talk 
Of  infants,  and  their  little   ways   and 

wiles, 
Broke  off  to  sav,  "  I  never  saw  a  babe 
So  like  its  father."     And  the  thought 

was  new 
To  Muriel ;  she  looked  up,  and  when 

she  looked, 
Her  husband  smiled.      And  she,   the 

lovely  bloom 
Flushing  her  face,  vi-ould  f^in  he  had 

not  known. 
Nor  noticed  her  surprise.     But  he  did 

know; 


Yet  there  was   pleasure  in  his   smile 

and  love 
Tender   and   strong.     He   kissed  her, 

kissed  his  babe, 
With  "  Goody,  you  are  left  in  charge, 

take  care." 
"As  if  I    needed  telling,"   quoth   the 

dame ; 
And  they  were  gone. 

Then  Muriel,  lost  in  thought. 
Gazed ;    and    the    grandn.o.her,    with 

open  pride. 
Tended   the   lovely  pair;    till   Muriel 

said, 
"  Is  she  so  like  ?    Dear  granny,  get  me 

now 
The  picture  that  his  father  has;"  and 

soon 
The  old  woman  put  it  in  her  hand. 

The  wife, 
Considering  it  with  deep  and  strange 

delight, 
Forgot  for  once  her  babe,  and  looked 

and  learned. 

A  mouth  for  master)'  and  manful  work, 
A  certain   brooding   sweetness  in  the 

eyes, 
A  brow,  the  harbor  of  grave  thought, 

and  hair 
Saxon   of     hue.      She    conned ;    then 

blushed  again, 
Remembering    now,    when     she    had 

looked  on  him. 
The  sudden  radiance  of  her  husband's 

smile. 

But  Muriel  did  not  send  the  picturi 

back ; 
She  kept  it ;  while  her  beauty  and  her 

babe 
Flourished  together,  and  in  health  an.' 

peace 
She  lived. 

Her  husband  never  said  to  her, 
"Love,  are  you  happy?"  never  said  to 

her, 
"  Sweet,  do  you  love  me?"  and  at  first, 

whene'er 
They  rode  together  in  the  lanes,   and 

paused, 


LAURANCE. 


Stopping  their  horses,  when  the  day 

was  hot, 
In  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  to  watch  the 

cliiuds, 
Ruffled  in  drifting  on  the  jagged  rocks 
That   topped   the    mountains, — when 

she  sat  by  him, 
Withdrawn  at  even  while  the  summer 

stars 
Came  starting  out  of  nothing,  as  new 

made. 
She  feU  a  little  trouble,  and  a  wish 
That  he  would  yet  keep  silence,  and 

he  did. 
That  one  reserve  he  would  not  touch, 

but  still 
Respected. 

Muriel  grew  more  brave  in  time, 
And  talked  at  ease,  and  felt  disquietude 
Fade.     And  another  child  was  given  to 

her. 

"  Now  we  shall   do,"    the   old  great- 

grandsire  cried, 
*'  For  this  is  the  right  sort,   a  boy." 

"  Fie,  fie," 
Quoth  the    good   dame;    "but   never 

heed  you,  love. 
He  thinks  them  both  as  right  as  right 

can  be." 

But  Laurance  went  from  home,  ere  yet 

the  boy 
Was  three  weeks  old.     It  fretted  him 

to  go. 
But  yet  he  said,  "  I  must : "  and  she 

was  left 
Much   with  the    kindly  dame,   whose 

gentle  care 
Was   like   a   mother's;     and   the   two 

could  talk 
Sweetly,  for  all  the  difference  in  their 

years. 

But  unaware,  the  wife  betrayed  a  wish 
That   she   had   known  why   Laurance 

left  her  thus. 
"Ay,  love,"  the  dame  made   answer; 

"for  he  said, 
'  Goody,'  before  he  left,  '  if  Muriel  ask 
No  question,   tell  her  nau^lit ;  but  if 

she  let 


Any  disquietude  appear  to  you, 

Say  what   you    know.'"       "What'" 

Muriel  said,  and  laughed, 
"  I  ask,  then." 

"  Child,  it  is  that  your  old  love, 
Some  two  months  past,  was  here.     Nay, 

never  start : 
He's  gone.     He   came,  our  Laurance 

met  him  near  ; 
He  said  that  he  was  going  over  seas, 
'  And  might  I  see  your  wife  this  only 

once. 
And  get  her  pardon  ? '  " 

"  Mercy!  "  Muriel  cried, 
"  But  Laurance  does  not  w!sh  it?" 

"  Nay,  now,  nay," 
Quoth  the  good  dame. 

"  I  cannot,"  Muriel  cried  ; 
"  He  does  not,  surely,  think  I  should." 

"  Not  he," 
The  kind  old  woman  said,  right  sooth- 
ingly. 
"  Does  not  he  ever  know,  love,  ever  do 
What  you  like  best?" 

And  Muriel,  trembling  yet, 
Agreed.      "  I    heard    him    say,"    the 

dame  went  on, 
"  For  I  was  with  him  when  they  met 

that  day, 
'  It  would  not  be  agreeable  to  my  wife.'" 

Then  Muriel,  pondering,  —  "And   he 

said  no  more  ? 
You  think  he  did  not  add,  '  nor  to  my- 
self?" 
And  with  her  soft,  calm,  inward  voice, 

the  dame 
Unruffled  answered,  "  No,  sweet  heart, 

not  he: 
What  need  he  care  ?  "  "  And  why  not  ?  " 

Muriel  cried. 
Longing  to  hear  the  answer.     "  O,  he 

knows. 
He  knows,    love,  very  well :  "  —  with 

that^he  smiled. 
"  Bless  your  fair  face,   you  have  not 

really  thought 
He  did  not  know  you  loved  him?  " 


13° 


SO.VGS  OF   THE  NIGHT   IFATCHES. 


Muriel  said, 
"He   never  told   me,  goody,  that   he 

knew." 
"Well,"  quolh  the  dame,  "but  it  may 

chance,  my  dear, 
That  he  thinks  best  to  let  old  troubles 

sleep : 
Why  need  to  rouse    them?     You  are 

happy,  sure? 
But  if  one  asks,   '  Art  happy  ? '  why,  it 

sets 
The  thoughts  a-working.     No,  say  I, 

let  love. 
Let  peace  and  happy  folk  alone. 

"  He  said, 
'  It  would  not  be  agreeable  to  my  wife.' 
And  he  went  on  to  add,  m  course  of 

time 
That  he  would  ask  you,  when  it  suited 

you. 
To  write  a  few  kind  words." 


"  I  can  do  that." 


"  Yes,"  Muriel  said. 


"  So  Laurance  went,  you  see," 
The  soft  voice  added,  "to  take  down 

that  child 
Laurance   had   \vritten    oft   about   the 

child. 
And  now,  at  last,   the  father  made  it 

known 
He  could  not  take  him.     He  has  lost, 

they  say. 
His  money,  with  much  gambling;  now 

he  wants 
To  lead  a  good,  true,  working  life.     He 

wrote. 
And  let  this  so  be  seen,  that  Laurance 

went 
And  took  the  child,  and  took  the  money 

down 
To  pay." 

And  Muriel  found  her  talking  sweet. 
And  asked  once  more,  the  rather  that 

she  longed 
To  speak  again  of  Laurance,  "  And  you 

think 
H  e  knows  I  love  him  ?  " 

"Ay,  good  sooth,  he  knows 
No  fear ;  but  he  is  like  his  father,  love. 


His  father  never  asked  my  pretty  child 

One  prymg  question ;  took  her  as  she 
was ; 

Trusted  her;  she  has  told  me  so:  he 
knew 

A  woman's  nature.  Laurance  is  the 
same. 

He  knows  you  love  him  ;  but  he  will 
not  speak ; 

No,  never.  Some  men  are  such  gen- 
tlemen! " 


SONGS     OF     THE     NIGHT 
WATCHES, 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  SONG  OF 
EVENING,  AND  A  CONCLUDING 
SONG   OF   THE   EARLY   DAY. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

(Old  English  Mantier.) 

APPRENTICED. 

"  Come  out  and  hear  the  waters  shoot, 
the  owlet  hoot,  the  owlet  hoot ; 
Yon   crescent  moon,  a   golden  boat, 
hangs  dim  behind  the  tree,  O  I 
The  dropping  thnrn  makes  white  the 
grass,  O  sweetest  lass,  and  sweet- 
est lass ; 
Come  out  and  smell  the  ricks  of  hay 
adown  the  croft  with  me,  O  ! " 

"  My  granny  nods  before  her  wheel, 
and   drops  her  reel,  and  drops 
her  reel  ; 
My  father  with  his  crony  talks  as  gay 
as  gay  can  be,  O ! 
But   all   the   milk  is  yet  to  skim,  ere 
light  wax  dim,  ere  light  wax  dim  ; 
How  can  I  step  adowni  the  croft,  my 
'prentice  lad,  with  thee,  O  ?  " 

"And  must  ye  bide,  yet  waiting's  long, 
and  love  is  strong,  and  love  is 
strong; 
And  ( ) !  had   I  but  served  the  time, 
that  takes  so  long  to  flee,  O  ! 


SONGS  OF   THE  NIGHT  IV A  TCHES. 


131 


And  thou,  my  lass,  by  morning's  light 
wast  all   in   white,    wast    all    in 
white, 
And  parson  stood  within  the  rails, 
a-marrying  me  and  thee,  O." 


THE    FIRST   WATCH. 


O,  I  WOULD  tell  you  more,  but  I  am 
tired  ; 
For  I   have  longed,  and  I  have  had 
my  will ; 
I  pleaded  in  my  spirit,  I  desired : 

"  Ah !   let  me  only  see  him,  and  be 
still 
All  my  days  after.' ' 

Rock,  and  rock,  and  rock. 
Over  the  falling,  rising  watery  world, 
Sail,  beautiful  ship,  along  the  leaping 
main ; 
The  chirping  land-birds  follow  flock  on 
flock 
To  light  on  a  warmer  plain. 
White  as  weaned  lambs  the  little  wave- 
lets curled. 
Fall  over  in  harmless  play, 
As  these  do  far  away  ; 
Sail,  bird  of  doom,  along  the  shimmer- 
ing sea, 
All  under  ihy  broad  wings  that  over- 
shadow thee. 


I  am  so  tired, 
If  I  would  comfort  me,  I   know  not 
how, 
For  I  have  seen  thee,  lad,  as  I  de- 
sired. 
And  I  have  nothing  left  to  long  for 
now. 

Nothing  at  all.     And  did  I  wait  for 
thee, 
Often  and    often,   while  the    light 
grew  dim, 


And   through   the   lilac  branches   I 
could  see. 
Under   a    saffron  sky,  the   purple 
rim 
O'  the  heaving  moorland?     Ay.     And 

then  would  float 
Up  from  behind  —  as  it  were  a  golden 

boat. 
Freighted  with  fancies,  all  o'  the  won- 
der of  life, 
Love  —  such  a  slender  moon,  going 
up  and  up, 
Waxing  so  fast  from  night  to  night. 
And   swelling   like   an   orange   flower- 
bud,  bright. 
Fated,  methought,  to  round  as  to  a 
golden  cup, 
And  hold  to  my  two  lips  life's  best  of 
wine 
Most  beautiful  crescent  moon, 
Ship  of  the  sky! 
Across  the  unfurrowed  reaches  sail- 
ing high. 
Methought  that  it  would  come  my 
w.iy  full  soon. 
Laden  with  blessings  that  were  all,  all 
mine,  — 
A  golden  ship,  with  balm  and  spi- 

ceries  rife. 
That   ere  its  day  was   done  should 
hear  thee  call  me  wife. 


All  Over!  the  celestial  sign  hath  failed  ; 

The  orange  flower-bud  shuts;  the  ship 

hath  sailed, 

And  sunk  behind  the  long  low-lying 

hills. 

The   love    that    fed    on    daily    kisses 

dieth  ; 
The  love  kept  warm  by  nearness  lieth. 
Wounded  and  wan ; 
The  love  hope  nourished  bitter  tears 
distils. 
And   faints  with   naught    to    feed 
upon. 
Only  there  stirreth  very  deep  below 
The  hidden  beating  slow. 
And  the  blind  yearning,  and  the  longi 

drawn  breath 
Of  the  love  that  conquers  death. 


SOXGS  OF   THE  NIGHT   U'ATCHES. 


Had  we  not  loved  full  long,  and  lost  all 

fear, 
My  ever,  my  only  dear  ? 
Yes;  and  I  saw   thee   start  upon  thy 
way, 
So  sure  that  we  should  meet 
Upon  our  trysting-day. 
And  even  absence  then  to  me  was 
sweet. 
Because  it  brought  me  time  to  brood 
Upon  thy  dearness  in  the  solitude. 
But  ah  !  to  stay,  and  stay, 
And  let  that  moon  of  April  wane  it- 
self away. 
And  let  the  lovely  May 
Make  ready  all  her  buds  for  June  ; 
And  let  the  glossy  finch  forego  her 

tune 
That   she  brought  with  her   in  the 
spring. 
And   nevermore,    I   think,  to   me   can 
sing; 
And  then  to  lead  thee  home  another 
bride. 
In  the  sultry  summer-tide. 
And  all  forget  me  save  for  shame 
full  sore, 
That  made  thee  pray  me,  absent,  "  See 
my  face  no  more." 


O  hard,  most  hard!      But  while  my 
fretted  heart, 
Shut  out,   shut  down,   and  full  of 
pain, 
Sobbed  to  itself  apart, 
Ached  to  itself  in  vain, 
One  came  who  loveth  me 
As  I  love  thee.  .  .   . 
And  let  my  God  remember  him  for 

this, 
As  I  do  hope  He  will  forget  thy  kiss. 
Nor  visit  on  thy  stately  head 
Aught  that  thy  mouth  hath  sworn,  or 

thy  two  eyes  have  said.  .  .  . 
He  came,  and  it  was  dark.     He  came, 

and  sighed 
Because  he  knew  the  sorrow, — whis- 
pering low, 


And  fast,  and  thick,  as  one  that  speaks 
by  rote : 
"The  vessel  lieth  in  the  river  reach, 

A  mile  above  the  beach. 
And  she  will  sail  at  the  turning  o'  the 
tide." 
He  said,  "  I  have  a  boat, 
And  were  it  good  to  go. 
And  unbeholden  in  the  vessel's  wake 
Look  on  the  man  thou  lovedst,  and 

forgive. 
As  he  embarks,  a  shameful  fugitive. 
Come,  then,  with  me." 


O,  how  he  sighed!      The  little  stars 

did  wink, 
And   it   was  verj'  dark.     I  gave  my 

hand,  — 
He  led  me  out  across   the   pasture 
land. 
And  through  the  narrow  croft, 
Down  to  the  river's  brink. 
When   thou  wast  full  in  spring,  thou 

little  sleepy  thing. 
The  yellow  flags  that  broidered   thee 

would  stand 
Up  to  their  chins  in  water,  and  full  oft 
We  pulled  them  and  the  other  shining 
flowers. 
That  all  are  gone  to-day: 
We  two,  that  had  so  many  things  to 
say. 
So  many  hopes  to  render  clear  : 
And  they  are  all  gone  after  thee,  my 
dear,  — 
Gone  after  those  sweet  hours. 
That  tender  light,  that  balmy  rain  ; 
Gone    "as   a  wind    that    passeth 
away. 
And  Cometh  not  again." 


I  only  saw  the  stars,  —  I  could  not 
see 
The  river,  —  and  they  seemed  to  lie 
As  far  below  as  the  other  stars  were 
hish. 
I   trembled  like  a  thing  about  to 
die : 
It  was  so  awful  'neath  the  majesty 


SO.VGS  OF   THE   NIGHT   WATCHES. 


133 


Of  that  great  crystal    height,    that 
overhung 
The  blackness  at  our  feet, 
Unseen  to  fleet  and  fleet 
The  flocking  stars  among, 
And  only  hear  the  dipping  of  the 
oar, 
And  the  small  wave's  caressing  of  the 
darksome  shore. 


Less  real  it  was  than  any  dream. 
Ah  me !  to  hear  the  bending  willows 

shiver. 
As  we  shot  quickly  from  the  silent 
river, 
And  felt  the  swaying  and  the  flow 
That  bore  us  down  the  deeper,  wider 
stream, 
Whereto  its  nameless  waters  go: 
O!   I  shall  always,  when  I  shut  mine 
eyes. 
See  that  w-eird  sight  again  ; 
The  lights  from  anchored  vessels 

hung ; 
The  phantom  moon,  that  sprung 
Suddenly  up  in  dim  and  angry  wise 
From   the   rim   o'   the  moaning 

main, 
And  touched  with  elfin  light 
The  two  long  oars  whereby  we  made 
our  flight 
Along  the  reaches  of  the  night ; 
Then  furrowed  up  a  lowering  cloud. 
Went  in,  and  left  us  darker  than 
before. 
To  feel  our  way  as  the  midnight  watches 

wore, 
And  lie  in  her  lee,  with  mournful  faces 

bowed. 
That  should  receive  and  bear  with  her 

away 
The  brightest  portion  of  my  sunniest 

day,  — 
The  laughter  of  the  land,  the  sweetness 
of  the  shore. 


And   I   beheld  thee:    saw  the  lantern 

flash 
Down    on    thy   face   when   thou  didst 

climb  the  side. 


And  ihou  wert  pale,  pale  as  the  patient 
bride 
That  followed :  both  a  little  sad. 
Leaving  of  home  and  kin.     Thy  cour- 
age glad, 
That  once  did  bear  thee  on. 
That  brow  of  thine  had  lost ;  the  fer\'or 

rash 
Of  unforeboding  youth  thou  hadst  fore- 
gone. 
O,  what  a  little  moment,  what  a  crumb 
Of  comfort  for  a  heart  to  feed  upon ! 
And  that  was  all  its  sum  : 
A  glimpse,  and  not  a  meeting,  — 
A  drawing  near  by  night. 
To  sigh  to  thee  an  unacknowledged 

greeting. 
And  all  between  the   flashing   of  a 
light 
And  its  retreating. 


Then  after,  ere  she  spread  her  wafting 

wings. 
The  ship,  — and  weighed  her  anchor  to 

depart, 
We  stole  from  her  dark  lee,  like  guilty 
thmgs ; 
And  there  was  silence  in  my  heart, 
And  silence  in  the  upper  ai.d  the  nether 
deep. 
O  sleep !  O  sleep ! 
Do  not  forget  me.     Sometimes  come 

and  sweei"). 
Now  I   have  nothing  left,  thy  healing 

hand 
Over  the   lids   that    crave    thy    visits 
bland. 
Thou  kind,  thou  comforting  one  : 
For  I  have  seen  his  face,  as  I  de- 
sired. 
And  all  my  story  is  done. 
O,  I  am  tired! 


THE   MIDDLE  WATCH. 


I  WOKE  in  the  night,  and  the  darkness 
was  heavy  and  deeji ; 
I  had  known  it  was  dark  in  my 
sleep, 


234 


SO-VGS   OF   THE  NIGHT   WATCHES. 


And  I  rose  and  looked  out, 
And  the  fathomless  vault  was  all  spark- 
ling,   set  thick  round  about 
With  the  ancient  inhabiters  silent,  and 

wheeling  too  far 
For  man's  heart,  like  a  voyaging  frig- 
ate, to  sail,  where  remote 
In  the  sheen  of  their  glory  they  float. 
Or  man's  soul,  like  a  bird,  to  fiy  near, 
of  their  beams  to  partake, 
And  dazed  in  their  wake, 
Drink  day  that  is  born  of  a  star. 
I  murmured,   "  Remoteness  and  great- 
ness, how  deep  vou  are  set, 
How  afar  in  the  rim  of  the  whole  ; 
You  know  nothing  of  me,  nor  of  man, 

nor  of  earth,  O,  nor  yet 
Of     our     light-bearer,  —  drawing     the 
marvellous  moons  as  they  roll. 
Of  our  regent,  the  sun. 
I  look  on  you  trembling,  and  think,  in 

the  dark  with  my  soul, 
"  How  small  is  our  place  'mid  the  king- 
doms and  nations  of  God  : 
Tliese  are  greater  than  we,  every 
one  " 
And  there  falls  a  great  fear,   and  a 
dread  cometh  over,  that  cries, 
"O  my  hope!     Is  there  any  mis- 
take? 
Did  He  speak?    Did  I  hear?    Did  I 

listen  aright,  if  He  spake? 
Did   I  answer   Him   duly?  for  surely  I 
now  am  awake, 
If  never  I  woke  until  now." 
And  a  light,  baffling  wind,  that  leads 
nowhither,  plays  on  my  brow. 
As  a  sleep,  I  must  think  on  my  day,  of 

my  path  as  untrod. 
Or  trodden  in  dreams,  in  a  dreamland 

whose  coasts  are  a  doubt ; 
Whose     countries     recede     from     my 
thoughts,  as  they  grope  round 
about, 
And  vanish,  and  tell  me  not  how. 
Be  kind  to  our  darkness,  O  Fashioner, 
dwelling  in  light, 
And  feeding  the  lamps  of  the  sky  ; 
Look  down  upon  this  one,  and  let  it  be 
sweet  in  Thy  sight, 
I  pray  Thee,  to-night. 
O  watch  whom  Thou  madest  to  dwell 
on  its  soil,  Thou  Most  High ! 


For  thi.'i  is  a  world  full  of  sorrow  (there 

may  be  but  one) ; 
Keep  watch    o'er   its   dust,    else   Thy 

children  for  aye  are  undone, 
For  this  is  a  world  where  we  die. 


With  that,  a  still  voice  in  my  spirit  that 
moved  and  that  yearned 
(There   fell  a  great  calm  while  it 
spake), 
I  had  heard  it  erewhile,  but  the  noises 

of  life  are  so  loud. 
That  sometimes  it  dies  in  the  cry  of  the 

street  and  the  crowd: 
To  the  simi  le  it  cometh,  —  the  child,  or 

asleep,  or  awake. 
And  they  know  not  from  whence  ;  of 
its  nature  the  wise  never  learned 
By  his  wisdom ;  its  secret  the  worker 

ne'er  earned 
By  his  toil ;  and  the  rich  among  men 
never  bought  with  his  gold ; 
Nor  the  times  of  its  visiting  mon- 
archs  controlled. 
Nor  the  jester  put  down  with  his 
jeers 
(For  it  moves  where  it  will),   nor 
its  season  the  aged  discerned 
By   thought,  in  the  ripeness  of 
years. 


O  elder  than  reason,  and  stronger  than 
will ! 
A  voice,  when  the  dark  world  is 
still : 

Whence  cometh  it?    Father  Immortal, 
Thou  knowest !  and  we,  — 

We  are  sure  of  that  witness,  that  sense 
which  is  sent  us  of  Thee  ; 

For  it  moves,  and  it  yearns  in  its  fellow- 
ship mighty  and  dread. 

And  let  down  to  our  hearts  it  is  touch- 
ed by  the  tears  that  we  shed  ; 

It  is  more  than  all  meanings,  and  over 
all  strife  ; 
On  its  tongue  are  the  laws  of  our 

life. 
And  it  counts  up  the  times  of  the 
dead. 


SONGS  OF   THE  NIGHT  WA  TCHES. 


I  will  fear  you,  O  stars,  never  more. 
I  have  felt  it !     Go  on,  while  the 

world  is  asleep, 
Golden  islands,  fast  moored  in  God's 
infinite  deep. 
Hark,  hark  to  the  words  of  sweet  fash- 
ion, the  harpings  of  yore! 
How  they  sang  to  Him,  seer  and  saint, 
in  the  far  away  lands  : 
"The  heavens  are   the   work   of 

Thy  hands ; 
They  shall  perish,  but  Thou  shalt 
endure ; 
Yea,  they  all  shall  wax  old,  — 
But  Thy  throne  is  established,  O  God, 
and  Thy  years  are  made  sure  ; 
They  shall  perish,  but  Thou  shall 

endure,  — 
They  shall  pass  like  a  tale  that  is 
told." 

Doth  He  answer,  the  Ancient  of 

Days? 
Will  He  speak  in  the  tongue  and 
the  fashion  of  men  .' 
(Hist!    hist!     while   the   heaven-hung 
multitudes  shine  in  His  praise, 
His  language  of  old.)     Nay,  He  spoke 
with  them  first ;  it  was  then 
They  lifted    their   eyes   to   His 
throne : 
"They shall  call  on  Me,  'Thou  art  our 
Father,  our  God,  Thou  alone  ! ' 
For  I  made  them,  I  led  them  in  des- 
erts and  desolate  ways  ; 
I  have  found  them  a  Ransom  Di- 
vine ; 
I  have  loved  them  with  love  everlasting, 
the  children  of  men  ; 
I    swear   by    Myself,    they    are 
Mine." 


THE  MORNING  WATCH. 

THB   COMING   IN   OF   THE    "  MER- 
MAIDEN." 

The  moon   is  bleached    as    white  as 
wool. 
And  just  dropping  under ; 


Every  star  is  gone  but  three, 
And  they  hang  far  asunder,  — 

There's  a  sea-ghost  all  in  gray, 
A  tall  shape  of  wonder! 

I  am  not  satisfied  with  sleep,  — 

The  night  is  not  ended. 
But  look  how  the  sea-ghost  comes, 

With  wan  skirts  extended, 
Stealing  up  in  this  weird  hour, 

When  light  and  dark  are  blended. 

A  vessel !     To  the  old  pier  end 
Her  happy  course  she's  keeping; 

I  heard  them  name  her  yesterday  : 
Some  were  pale  with  wee|)ing  ; 

Some  with  their  heart-hunger  sighed  ; 
She's  in,  —  and  they  are  sleeping. 

O !  now  with  fancied  greetings  blest, 
They  comfort  their  long  aching  ; 

The  sea  of  sleep  hath  borne  to  them 
What  would  not  come  with  waking, 

And  the  dreams  shall  most  be  true 
In  their  blissful  breaking. 

The   stars  are    gone,   the   rose-bloom 
comes,  — 

No  blush  of  maid  is  sweeter; 
The  red  sun,  half  way  out  of  bed. 

Shall  be  the  first  to  greet  her. 
None  tell  the  news,  yet  sleepers  wake. 

And  rise,  and  run  to  meet  her. 

Their  lost  they  have,  they  hold ;  from 
pain 

A  keener  bliss  they  borrow. 
How  natural  is  joy,  my  heart! 

How  easy  after  soitow! 
For  once,  the  best  is  come  that  hope 

Promised  them  "  to-morrow." 


CONCLUDING  SONG  OF 
DAWN. 

(Old English  Mantier.) 

A     MORN    OF    MAY. 

All  the  clouds  about  the  sun  lay  up  In 

golden  creases 
(Merjj'  rings  the  maiden's  voice  that 

sings  at  dawn  of  day)  ; 


•36 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Lambkins  woke  and  skipped  around  to 

dry  their  dewy  fleeces, 
So  sweetly  as  she   caruUed,   all   on  a 

morn  of  May. 

Quoth  the  Sergeant,  "  Here  I'll  halt ; 

here's  wine  of  joy  for  drinking  ; 
To  my  heart  she  sets  her  hand,  and  in 

the  strings  doth  play  ; 
All  among  the  daffodils,  and  fairer  to 

my  thinking. 
And  fresh  as  milk  and  roses,  she  sits 

this  mom  of  May." 

Quoth  the  Sergeant,  "  Work  is  work, 

but  any  ye  might  make  me. 
If   I   worked  for  you,    dear  lass,    I'd 

count  my  holiday. 
I'm  your  slave  for  good  and  all,  an'  if 

ye  will  but  take  me, 
So  sweetly  as  ye  carol  upon  this  mom 

of  May." 

"  Medals  count  for  worth,"  quoth  she, 

"  and  scars  are  worn  for  honor  ; 
But  a  slave  an'  if  ye  be,  kind  wooer,  go 

your  way." 
All    the    nodding   daffodils  woke    up 

and  laughed  upon  her. 
O!  sweetly  did  .she  carol,  all  on  that 

morn  of  May. 

Gladsome  leaves  upon  the  bough,  they 

fluttered  fast  and  faster, 
Fretting  brook,  till  he  would  speak,  did 

chide  the  dull  delay  : 
"  Beauty!  when  I  said  a  slave,  I  think 

I  meant  a  master  ; 
So  sweetly  as  ye  carol  all  on  this  morn 

of  May. 

"  Lass,  I  love  you !    Love  is  strong,  and 

some  men's  hearts  are  tender." 
Far  she  sought  o'er  wood  and   wold, 

but  foimd  not  aught  to  say  ; 
Mounting  lark  nor  mantling  cloud  would 

any  counsel  render, 
Though  sweetly  she  h.id  carolled  upon 

that  morn  of  May. 

Shy,  she  sought  ths  wooer's  face,  and 
deemed  the  wooing  mended  ; 

Proper  man  he  was,  good  sootjj,  and 
one  would  have  his  way : 


So  the  lass  was  made  a  wife,  and  so  the 

song  was  ended. 
O !  sweetly  she  did  carol  all  on  that 

morn  of  l\lay. 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

BOOK   I. 

NiLoiYA  said  to  Noah,  "  What  aileth 
thee, 

My  master,  unto  whom  is  my  desire. 

The  father  of  my  sons?"  He  an- 
swered her, 

"  Mother  of  many  children,  I  have 
heard 

The  Voice  again."  "Ah,  me!"  she 
saith,  "ah,  me! 

What  spake  it  ? "  and  with  that  Niloiya 
sighed. 

This  when  the  Master-builder  heard, 
his  heart 

Was  sad  in  him,  the  while  he  sat  at 
home 

And  rested  after  toil.     The  steady  rap 

O'  the  shipwright's  hammer  soui.dmg 
up  the  vale 

Did  seem  to  mock  him ;  but  her  dis- 
taff down 

Niloiya  laid,  and  to  the  doorplace 
went. 

Parted  the  purjile  covering  seemly 
hung 

Before  it,  and  'et  in  the  crimson  light 

Of  the  descending  sun.  Then  looked 
he  forth,  — 

Looked,  and  beheld  the  hollow  where 
the  ark 

Was  a-preparing ;  where  the  dew  dis- 
tilled 

All  night  from  leaves  of  old  lign  aloe- 
trees. 

Upon  the  gliding  river ;  where  the 
palm, 

The  a' mug,  and  the  gophir  shot  their 
heads 

Into  the  crimson  brede  that  dyed  the 
world : 

And  1(1 1  he  marked  —  unwieldy,  dark, 
and  huge  — 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


m 


The  ship,  his  glory  and  his  grief,  —  too 
vast 

For  that  still  river's  floating, — build- 
ing far 

From  mightier  streams,  amid  the  pas- 
toral dells 

Of  shepherd  kings. 

Niloiya  spake  again  : 

"  What  said  the  Voice,  thou  well-be- 
loved man?" 

He,  laboring  with  his  thought  that 
troubled  him. 

Spoke  on  behalf  of  God :  "  Behold," 
said  he, 

"  A  little  handful  of  unlovely  dust 

He  fashioned  to  a  lordly  grace,  and 
when 

He  laughed  upon  its  beauty,  it  waxeJ 
warm. 

And  with  His  breath  awoke  a  living 
soul. 

"  Shall   not   the   Fashioner    command 

His  work? 
And  who  am   I,  that,  if  he  whisper, 

'  Rise, 
Go  forth  upon  Mine   errand,'    should 

reply, 
'  Lord,  God,  I  love  the  woman  and  her 

sons,  — 
I  love  not  scorning ;  I  beseech  Thee, 

God, 
Have  me  excused.' " 


She  answered  him,  "  Tell  on." 
And  he  continuing,  reasoned  with  his 

soul  : 
"  What  though  I  —  like  some  goodly 

lama  sunk 
In  meadow  grass,  eating  her  way   at 

ease, 
Unseen  of  them  that  pass,  and  asking 

not 
A  wider  prospect  than  of  yellow  flowers 
Th.at  nod  above  her  head  —  should  lay 

me  down. 
And  willingly  forget  this  high  behest. 
There  should  be  yet  no  tarrying.    Fur- 
thermore, 
Though  I  went  forth  to  cry  against  the 

doom, 


Earth  crieth  louder,  and  she  draws  it 

down  : 
It  hangeth  balanced  over  us ;  she  cri- 
eth, 
And  it  shall  fall.     O !  as  for  me,  my 

life 
Is  bitter,  looking  onward,  for  I  know 
That  in  the  fulness  of  the  time  shall 

dawn 
That   day:     my    preaching    shall    not 

bring  forth  fruit. 
Though  for  its  sake  I  leave  thee.     I 

shall  float 
Upon  the  abhorred  sea,  that  mankind 

hate. 
With  thee  and  thine." 


She  answered:   "  God  forbid  ! 

For,  sir,  though  men  be  evil,  yet  the 
deep 

They  dread,  and  at  the  last  will  surely 
turn 

To  Him,  and  He,  long-suffering,  will 
forgive. 

And  chide  the  waters  back  to  their 
abyss. 

To  cover  the  pits  where  doleful  creat- 
ures feed. 

Sir,  I  am  much  afraid ;  I  would  not 
hear 

Of  riding  on  the  waters:  look  you, 
sir. 

Better  it  were  to  die  with  you  by  hand 

Of  them  that  hate  us,  than  to  live,  ah 
me  ! 

Rolling  among  the  furrows  of  the  un- 
quiet, 

Unconsecrate,  unfriendly,  dreadful 
sea." 

He  saith  again  :  "  I  pray  thee,  woman, 
peace, 

For  thou  wilt  enter,  when  that  day  ap- 
pears, 

The  fateful  ship." 

"  My  lord,"  quoth  she,  "  I  will. 
But  O,  good  sir,  be  sure  of  this,  be  sure 
The  Master  calleth ;    for  the   time  is 

long  ■ 

That   thou   hast    warned    the    world: 

thou  art  but  here 


'38 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Three  days  ;  the  song  of  welcoming  but 

now 
Is  ended.     I  behold  thee,  I  am  glad: 
And  wilt  thou  go  again?     Husband,  I 

say, 
Be  sure  who 't  is  that  calleth ;  O,  be 

sure, 
Be  sure.     My  mother's  ghost  came  up 

last  night, 
Whilst  I  thy  beard,  held  in  my  hands, 

did  liiss, 
Leaning  anear  thee,  wakeful  through 

my  love. 
And  watchful   of  thee   till    the   moon 

went  down. 

"  She  never  loved  me  since  I  went  with 

thee 
To    sacrifice    among    the    hills:     she 

smelt 
The  holy  smoke,  and  could  no  more 

divine 
Till  the  new  moon.     I  saw  her  ghost 

come  up  ; 
It  had  a  snake  with  a  red  comb  of  fire 
Twisted  about  its  waist,  —  the  doggish 

head 
Lolled  on  its  shoulder,  and  so  leered  at 

me. 
'This  woman  might  be  wiser,'  quoth 

the  ghost  ; 
'  Shall  there  be  husbands  for  her  found 

below. 
When  she  comes  down  to  us  ?     O,  fool ! 

O,  fool ! 
She  must  not  let  her  man  go  forth,  to 

leave 
Her    desolate,    and    reap    the    whole 

world's  scorn, 
A  harvest  for  himself.'     With  that  they 

passed." 

He  said :  "  My  crystal  drop  of  perfect- 

ness, 
I  pity  thee  ;  it  was  an  evil  ghost : 
Thou  wilt  not  heed  the  counsel  ?  "     "I 

will  not," 
Quoth  she  ;  "  I  am  loyal  to  the  Highest 

Him 
I  hold  by  even  as  thou,  and  deem  Him 

best. 
Sir,   am    I    fairer  than  when   last  we 

met?" 


"God  add,"'  said  he,  "unto  thy  much 

yet  more, 
As  I  do  think  thou  art"     "  And  think 

you,   sir," 
Niloiya  saith,  "that   I   have  reached 

the  prime?" 
He  answering,  "  Naj',   not  yet."     "  I 

would  'twere  so," 
She  plaineth,  "for  the  daughters  mock 

at  me : 
Her  locks  forbear  to  grow,  they  say,  so 

sore 
She  pineth  for  the  Master.    Look  you, 

sir. 
They   reach   but  to   the    knee.       But 

thou  art  come, 
And  all  goes  merrier,     Eat,  my  lord,  of 

all 
My  supper  that  I  set,  and  afterward 
Tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  somewhat  of  thy 

way  ; 
Else  shall  I  be  despised  as  Adam  was, 
Who  compassed  not  the  learning  of  his 

sons. 
But,  grave  and  silent,  oft  would  lower 

his  liead 
And  ponder,  following  of  great  Isha's 

feet, 
When   she   would  walk  with  her  fair 

brow  upraised. 
Scorning  the  children  that  she  bare  to 

him." 

"Ay,"  quoth  the  Master;  "but  they 

did  amiss 
When     they     despised     their    father: 

knowest  thou  that  ? " 

"  Sure  he  was  foolisher,"  Niloiya  saith, 

"Than  any  that  came  after.  Further- 
more, 

He  had  not  heart  nor  courage  for  to 
rule : 

He  let  the  mastery  fall  from  his  slack 
hand. 

Had  not  our  glorious  mother  still  borne 

His  weakness,  chid  with  him,  and  sat 

apart, 
And  listened,  when  the  fit  came  over 

him 
To  talk  on  his  lost  garden,  he  had  sunk 
Into  the  slave  of  slaves." 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


•39 


"  Nay,  thou  must  think 
How  he  had  dwelt  long,  God's"  loved 

husbandman, 
And  looked  in  hope  among  the  tribes 

for  one 
To  be  his  fellow,  ere  great  Isha,  once 
Waking,  he  found  at  his  left  side,  and 

knew 
The   deep   delight    of    speech."       So 

Noah,  and  thus 
Added,    "  And  therefore  was  his  loss 

the  more  ; 
For  though  the  creatures  he  had  singled 

out 
His  favorites,  dared  for  him  the  fiery 

sword 
And  followed  after  him,  —  shall  bleat  of 

lamb 
Console  one  for  the  foregone  talk  of 

God? 
Or  in  the  afternoon,  his  faithful  dog, 
Fawning   upon   him,    make   his   heart 

forget 
At  such  a  time,  and  such  a  time,  to 

have  heard 
What  he  shall  hear  no  more  ? 


"O,  as  for  him, 

It  was  for  this  that  he  full  oft  would 
stop. 

And,  lost  in  thought,  stand  and  revolve 
that  deed, 

Sad  muttering,  '  Woman  !  we  reproach 
thee  not ; 

Though  thou  didst  eat  mine  immor- 
tality ; 

Earth,  be  not  sorry ;  I  was  free  to 
choose.' 

Wonder  not,  therefore,  if  he  walked 
forlorn. 

Was  not  the  helpmeet  given  to  raise 
him  up 

From  his  contentment  with  the  lower 
things  ? 

Was  she  not  somewhat  that  he  could 
not  rule 

Beyond  the  action,  that  he  could  not 
have 

By  the  mere  holding,  and  that  still  as- 
pired 

And  drew  him  after  her?  So,  when 
deceived 

She  fell  by  great  desire  to  rise,  he  fell 


By  loss  of  upward  drawing,  when  she 

took 
A.i  evil  tongue  to  be  her  counsellor: 
'  Death  is  not  as  the   death  of  lower 

things, 
Rather  a  glorious  change,  begrudged 

of  Heaven, 
A  change  to  being  as  gods,'  —  he  from 

her  hand. 
Upon  reflection,  took  of  death  that  hour. 
And  ate  it  (not  the  death  that  she  had 

dared) ; 
He   ate   it   knowing.      Then   divisions 

came. 
She,  like  a  spirit  strayed  who  lost  the 

way. 
Too  venturesome,  among  the  farther 

stars. 
And  hardly  cares,   because    it  hardly 

hopes 
To  find  the  path  to  heaven ;  in  bitter 

wise 
Did  bear  to  him  degenerate  seed,  and 

he. 
Once  having  felt  her  upward  drawing, 

longed. 
And  yet  aspired,  and  yearned  to  be  re- 
stored. 
Albeit  she  drew  no  more." 

"  Sir,  ye  speak  well," 
Niloiya  saith,  "but  yet  the  mother  sits 
Higher  than  Adam.       He  did  under- 
stand 
Discourse  of  birds  and  all  four-footed 

things. 
But  she  had  knowledge  of  the  many 

tribes 
Of    angels    and   their   tongues ;    their 

playful  ways 
And  greetings  when  they  met.     Was 

she  not  wise  ? 
They  say  she  knew  much  that  she  never 

told, 
And  had  a  voice  that  called  to  her  as 

thou." 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  Master-shipwright, 

"who  am  I 
That   I   should  answer?      As  for  me, 

poor  man. 
Here  is   my   trouble:  'if  there  be  a 

Voioe,' 


I40 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM. 


At  first   I  cried,  '  let  me  behold  the 

mouth 
That  uttereth  it.'     Thereon  it  held  its 

peace. 
But  afterward,    I,    ioumeying   up   the 

hills, 
Did  hear  it  hoUower    than  an    echo 

fallen 
Across  some  clear  abyss ;   and  I   did 

stop, 
And   ask  of  all  my  company,   '  What 

cheer? 
If  there  be  spirits  abroad  that  call  to 

us, 
Sirs,  hold  your  peace  and  hear.'     So 

they  gave  heed. 
And   one   man   said,   '  It  is  the  small 

ground-doves 
That  peck  upon  the  stony  hillocks  ; ' 

one, 
'  It  is  the  mammoth  in  yon  cedar  swamp 
That  cheweth  in  his  dream  ; '   and  one, 

'  My  lord, 
It  is  the  ghost  of  him  that  yesternight 
We  slew,  because  he  grudged  to  yieid 

his  wife 
To  thy  great  father,  when  he  peaceably 
Did  send  to   take  her.'     Then  1   an- 
swered, '  Pass,' 
And  they  went  on  ;  and  I  did  lay  mine 

ear 
Close  to  the  earth  ;  but  there  came  up 

therefrom 
No  sound,  nor  any  speech ;  I  waited 

long. 
And  in  the  saying,  '  I  will  mount  my 

beast 
And  on,'  I  was  as  one  that  in  a  trance 
Beholdeth  what  is  coming,  and  I  saw 
Great  waters  and  a  ship  ;  and  somewhat 

spake, 
*  Lo,  this  shall  be  ;  let  him  that  heareth 

.it. 
And  seeth  it,  go  forth  to  warn  his  kind. 
For  I  will  drown  the  world. ' " 

Niloiya  saith, 
*'  Sir,  was  that  all  that  ye  went  forth 

upon?" 
The  Master,  he  replieth,  "  Ay,  at  first. 
That   same  was   all ;    but   many   days 

went  by, 
Whiie  I  did  reason  with  my  heart  and 

hope 


For  more,  and  struggle  to  remain,  and 

think, 
'  Let   me   be   certain ; '    and   so   think 

again, 
'  The  counsel  is  but  dark  ;  would  I  had 

more ! 
When  I  have  more  to  guide  me,  I  will 

go-' 
And  afterward,  when  reasoned  on  too 

much. 
It  seemed  remoter,  then  I  only  said, 
'  O,  would  I  had  the  same  again  ; '  and 

still 
I  had  it  not 

"  Then  at  the  last  I  cried, 
'  If  the  unseen  be  silent,  I  will  speak 
And  certify  my  meaning  to  myself. 
Say  that  He  spoke,  then  He  will  make 

that  good 
Which  He  hath  spoken.     Therefore  it 

were  best 
To  go,  and  do   His  bidding.     All  the 

earth 
Shall  hear  the  judgment  so,  and  none 

may  cry 
When  the  doom  falls,  "  Thou  God  art 

hard  on  us ; 
We  knew  not  Thou  wert  angry.     O I 

we  are  lost. 
Only  for  lack  of  being  warned." 

"  '  But  say 
That  He  spoke  not,  and  merely  it  befell 
Tliat    I    being    weary   had  a    dream. 

Why,  so 
He  could  not  suffer  damage ;  when  the 

time 
Was  past,  and  that  I  threatened  had 

not  come. 
Men  would  cry  out  on  me,  haply  me 

kill. 
For   troubling    their    content.       They 

would  not  swear 
"  God,  that  did  send  this  man,  is  proved 

untrue," 
But  rather,  "  Let  him  die ;  he  lied  to 

us; 
God   never  sent    him."     Only  Thou, 

great  King, 
Knowest  if  Thou  didst  speak  or  no.     I 

leave 
The  matter  here.     If  Thou  wilt  speak 

again, 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


I  go  fii  ffladness  ;  if  thou  wilt  not  speak, 
Nay,   if  Thou  never  didst,  I  not  the 

less 
Shall   go,    because    I    have    believed, 

what  time 
I  seemed  to  hear  Thee,  and  the  going 

stands 
With   memory  of  believing.'     Then  I 

washed, 
And  did  airay  me  in  the  sacred  gown, 
And  take  a  lamb." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  Niloiya  sighed, 
"  I  following,  and  I  knew  not  anything 
Till,  the  young  lamb  asleep  in  thy  two 

arms, 
We,  moving  up  among  the  silent  hills. 
Paused  in  a  grove  to  rest ;  and  many 

slaves 
Came  near  to  make  obeisance,  and  to 

bring 
Wood   for  the  sacrifice,  and  turf  and 

fire. 
Then  in  their  hearing  thou  didst  say  to 

me, 
'  Behold,  I  know  thy  good  fidelity, 
And  theirs  that  are   about    us ;    they 

would  guard 
The   mountain   passes,  if   it  were   my 

will 
Awhile  to  leave  thee  ; '  and  the  pygmies 

laughed 
For  joy,  that  thou  wouldst  trust  inferior 

things ; 
And   put   their    heads    down,  as  their 

manner  is, 
To  touch  our  feet.     They  laughed,  but 

sore  I  wept ; 
Sir,  I  could  weep  now  ;  ye  did  ill  to  go 
If  that  was  all  your  bidding ;    I   had 

thought 
God  drave  thee,  and  thou  couldst  not 

choose  but  go." 

Then  said  the  son  of  Lamech,  "After- 
ward, 

When  I  had  left  thee.  He  whom  I  had 
served 

Met  with  me  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 

'I'o  comfort  me  for  that  I  had  with- 
drawn 

From  thy  dear  compa.iy.  He  sware  to 
me 


That  no  man  should  molest  thee,  no, 

nor  touch 
The  bordering  of  mine  utmost  field.     I 

say. 
When  I  obeyed,  He  made  His  matters 

plain. 
With  whom  could  I  have  left  thee,  but 

with  them, 
Bom  in  thy  mother's  house,  and  bound 

thy  slaves?" 

She  said,  "  I  love  not  pygmies ;  they 

are  naught." 
And  he,  ''  Who  made  them  pygmies?" 

Then  she  pushed 
Her  veiling  hair  back  from  her  round, 

soft  eyes. 
And  answered,    wondering,   "  Sir,   my 

mothers  did ; 
Ye  know  it."    And  he  drew  her  near 

to  sit 
Beside  him  on  the  settle,  answering, 

"Ay." 
And  they  went  on  to  talk  as  writ  below, 
If  any  one  shall  read : 

"  Thy  mother  did, 
And  they  that  went  before  her.     Think- 

est  thou 
That  they  did  well  ? " 

"They  had  been  overcome  ; 
And    when    the    angered    conquerors 

drave  them  out. 
Behooved  them  find  some  other  way 

to  rule. 
They  did  but  use  their  wits.      Hath 

not  man  aye 
Been     cunning    in    dominion,    among 

beasts 
To  breed  for  size  or  swiftness,  or  for 

sake 
Of  the  white  wool  he  loveth,    at   his 

choice? 
What  harm  if  coveting  a  race  of  men 
That    could    but    serve,    they    sought 

among  their  thralls. 
Such  as  were  low  of  stature,  men  and 

maids ; 
Ay,  and  of  feeble  will  and  quiet  mind? 
Did  they  not  spend  much  gear  to  gather 

out 
Such   as    I   tell   of,  and   for   matching 

them 


i4a 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


One  with  another  for  a  thousand  years  ? 
What  harm,  then,  if  there  came  of  it  a 

race, 
Inferior  in  their  wits,  and  in  their  size. 
And  well  content  to  serve?  " 

"  'What  harm?'  thou  sayest. 
My  wife  doth  ask,  '  What  harm  ? ' '' 

"Your  pardon,  sir. 
I   do   remember  that   there  came  one 

day. 
Two  of  the  grave  old  angels  that  God 

made, 
When  first  He  invented  life  (right  old 

they  were, 
And  plain,  and  venerable) ;  and  they 

said. 
Rebuking  of  my  mother  as  with  hers 
She  sat,    Ye  do  not  well,  you  wives  of 

men. 
To  match  your  wit  against  the  Maker's 

will, 
And  for  your  benefit  to  lower  the  stamp 
Of  His  fair  image,  which  He  set  at  first 
Upon  man's  goodly  frame ;  ye  do  not 

well 
To  treat  His  likeness  even  as  ye  treat 
The  bird  and  beast  that  perish.'  " 

"  Said  they  aught 
To  appease  the  ancients,  or  to  speak 
them  fair?" 

"How  know  I?    'Twas   a  slave  that 

told  it  me. 
My  mother  was  full  old  when  I  was 

bom. 
And   that   was   in   her  youth.      What 

think  you,  sir? 
Did  not  the  giants  likewise  ill?  " 

"To  that 
I  have  no  answer  ready.     If  a  man, 
When  each  one  is  against  his  fellow, 

rule. 
Or  unmolested  dwell,  or  unreproved. 
Because,    for    size    and    strength,    he 

standeth  first, 
He  will  thereof  be  glad ;  and  if  he  say, 
'  I  will  to  wife  choose  me  a  stately  maid. 
And  leave  a  goodly  offspring  ; '  'sooth, 

I  think, 


He  sinneth  not ;  for  good  to  him  and 

his 
He  would  be  strong  and  great.     Thy 

people's  fault 
Was,  that  for  ill  to  others,   they   did 

plot 
To  make  them  weak  and  small." 

"  But  yet  they  steal 
Or  take  in  war  the  strongest  maids,  and 

such 
As  are  of  highest  stature  ;  ay,  and  oft 
They  fight  among  themselves  for  that 

same  cause. 
And  they  are  proud  against  the  King 

of  heaven  : 
They  hope  in  course  of  ages  they  shall 

cume 
To  be  as  strong  as  He." 

The  Master  said, 

"I  will  not  hear  thee  talk  thereof;  my 
heart 

Is  sick  for  all  this  wicked  world.  Fair 
wife, 

I  am  right  weary.  Call  thy  slaves  to 
thee. 

And  bid  that  they  prepare  the  sleeping 
place. 

O  would  that  I  might  rest!  I  fain 
would  rest. 

And,  no  more  wandering,  tell  a  thank- 
less world 

My  never-heeded  tale!  " 

With  that  she  called. 
The  moon  was  up,  and  some  few  stars 

were  out. 
While  heavy  at  the  heart  he  walked 

abroad 
To  meditate  before   his  sleep.     And 

yet 
Niloiya  pondered,  "Shall  my  master 

gn? 
And  will  my  master  go?    What  'vail- 

eth  it. 
That  he  doth  spend  himself,  over  the 

*  waste 
A-wandering,  till  he  reach  outlandish 

folk, 
That    mock    his    warning?     O,    what 

'vaileth  it. 
That  he  doth  lavish  wealth  to  build  yon 

ark, 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


143 


Whereat  the  daughters,  when  they  eat 

with  me, 
Laugh?     O   my  heart!      I  would  the 

Voice  were  stilled- 
Is   not   he   happy?     Who,  of  all   the 

earth, 
Obeyeth    like    to    me?     Have    not    I 

learned 
From  his  dear  mouth  to  utter  seemly 

words. 
And  lay  the  powers  my  mother  gave 

me  by  ? 
Have  I  made  offerings  to  the  dragon  ? 

Nay. 
And   I  am  faithful,  when  he  leaveth 

me 
Lonely  betwixt  the  peaked  mountain 

tops 
In  this  long  valley,  where  no  stranger 

foot 
Can  come  without  my  will.     He  shall 

not  go. 
Not  yet,  not  yet!     But  three  days  — 

only  three  — 
Beside    me,  and    a-muttering   on   the 

third, 
'  I  have  heard  the  Voice  again.'     Be 

dull,  O  dull. 
Mind  and  remembrance  1   Mother,  ye 

did  ill ; 
'Tis  hard  unlawful  knowledge  not  to 

use. 
Why,  O  dark  mother!   opened  ye  the 

way  ? " 
Yet  when  he  entered,  and  did  lay  aside 
His  costly  robe  of  sacrifice,  —  the  robe 
Wherein  he  had  been  offering,  ere  the 

sun 
Went  down,  —  forgetful  of  her  mother's 

craft. 
She  lovely  and  submiss  did  mourn  to 

him  : 
"  Thou  wilt  not  go,  —  I  pray  thee  do 

not  go. 
Till    thou    hast    seen    thy  children." 

And  he  said, 
"  I  will  not.     I   have  cried,  and  have 

prevailed : 
To-morrow  it  is  given  me  by  the  Voice 
Upon  a  four-days'  journey  to  proceed, 
And  follow    down    the    river,   till    its 

waves 
Are  swallowed  in  the  sand,  where  no 

flesh  dwells. 


"'There,'  quoth  the  Unrevealed,  'we 
shall  meet, 

And  I  will  counsel  thee ;  and  thou 
shalt  turn 

And  rest  thee  with  the  mother,  and 
with  them 

She  bare.'  Now,  therefore,  when  the 
morn  appears. 

Thou  fairest  among  women,  call  ihy 
slaves. 

And  bid  them  yoke  the  steers,  and 
spread  thy  car 

With  robes,  the  choicest  work  of  cun- 
ning hands ; 

Array  thee  in  thy  rich  apparel,  deck 

Thy  locks  with  gold ;  and  while  the 
hollow  vale 

I  thread  beside  yon  river,  go  thou  forth 

Atween  the  mountains  to  my  father's 
house, 

And  let  thy  slaves  make  all  obeisance 
due, 

And  take  and  lay  an  offering  at  his  feet. 

Then  light,  and  cry  to  him,  'Great 
king,  the  son 

Of  old  Methuselah,  thy  son  hath  sent 

To  fetch  the  growing  maids,  his  chil- 
dren, home.'  " 

"  Sir,"  quoth  the  woman,  "  I  will  do 
this  thing. 

So  thou  keep- faith  with  me,  and  yet  re- 
turn. 

But  will  the  Voice,  think  you,  forbear 
to  chide. 

Nor  that  Unseen,  who  calleth,  buffet 
thee. 

And  drive  thee  on?" 

He  saith,  "  It  will  keep  faith. 

Fear  not.  I  have  prevailed,  for  I  be- 
sought. 

And  lovingly  it  answered.     I  shall  rest, 

And  dwell  with  thee  till  after  my  three 
sons 

Come  from  the  chase."  She  said,  "  I 
let  them  forth 

In  fear,  for  they  are  young.  Their 
slaves  are  few. 

The  giant  elephants  be  cunning  folk  ; 

They  lie  in  ambush,  and  will  draw  men 
on 

To  follow,  —  then  will  turn  and  tread 
them  down." 


144 


A    STORY  GF  DOOM. 


"Thy  father's  house  unwisely  plan- 
ned,"  said  he, 

"To  drive  them  down  upon  the  grow- 
ing com 

Of  them  that  were  their  foes  ;  for  now, 
behold. 

They  suffer  while  the  unwieldy  beasts 
delay 

Retirement  to  their  lands,  and,  mean- 
while, pound 

The  damp,  deep  meadows,  to  a  pulpy 
mash ; 

Or  wallowing  in  the  waters  foul  them  ; 
nay, 

Tread  down  the  banks,  and  let  them 
fortli  to  flood 

Their  cities ;  or,  assailed  and  falling, 
shake 

The  walls,  and  taint  the  wind,  ere 
thirty  men, 

Over  the  hairj'  terror  piling  stones 

Or  earth,  prevail  to  cover  it." 

She  said, 
"  Husband,  I  have  been  sorrj',  think- 
ing oft 
I  would  my  sons  were  home ;  but  now 

so  well 
Methinks  it  is  with  me,  that  I  am  fain 
To  wish   they   might   delay,   for  thou 

wilt  dwell 
With  me  till  after  they  return,  and  thou 
Hast  set  thine  eyes  upon  them.    Then, 

ah  me ! 
I  must  sit  joyless  in  my  place  ;  bereft. 
As  trees  that  suddenly  have  drop]  ed 

their  leaves, 
And  dark  as  nights  that  have  no  moon." 

She  spake : 
The  hope  o'  the  world   did   hearken, 

but  reply 
Made  none.     He  left  his  hand  on  her 

fair  locks 
As  she  lay  sobbing ;  and  the  quietness 
Of  night  began  to  comfort  her,  the  fall 
Of  far-off  waters,  and  the  winged  wind 
That  went  among  the  trees.  The  pa- 
tient hand, 
Moreover,    that  was   steady,   wrought 

with  her, 
Until  she  said,  "  What  wilt  thou  ?    Nay, 
I  know. 


I  therefore  answer  what  thou  utterest 

not. 
Thou  Icntest  me  luell,  and  not  for  thine 

oivn  luill 
Cotisentest  to   depart.      What   more? 

Ay,  this: 
/  do  avow  that  He  -which  calleth  th.e 
Hath  right  to  call ;  and  I  do  svjjar 

the   Voice 
Sliall  Iiaz'e  no  let  of  me  to   do  Its 

"will." 


Now  ere  the  sunrise,  while  the  morn- 
ing star 

Hung  yet  behind  the  pine-bough,  woke 
and  prayed 

The  world's  great  shipwright,  and  his 
soul  was  glad 

Because  the  Voice  was  favorable.    Now 

Began  the  tap  o'  the  hammer,  now  ran 
forth 

The  slaves  preparing  food.  They  there- 
fore ate 

In  peace  together;    then  Niloiya  forth 

Behind  the  milk-white  steers  went  on 
her  way ; 

And  the  great  Master-builder,  down  the 
course 

Of  the  long  river,  on  his  errand  sped, 

And  as  he  went,  he  thoueht : 

[They  do  not  well 
Who,  walking  up  a  trodden  path,   all 

smooth 
With   footsteps  of   their  fellows,   and 

made  straight 
From  town  to  town,  will  scorn  at  them 

that  wonn 
Under  the  covert  of  God's  eldest  trees 
(Such  as   He  planted  with  His  hand, 

and  fed 
With  dew  before   rain  fell,    till    they 

stood  close 
And  awful ;  drank  the  light  up   as   it 

dropt, 
And  kept  the  dusk  of  ages  at  their 

roots),  — 
They  do  not  well  who  mock  at  such, 

and  cry, 
"We   peaceably,   without   or  fault  or 

fear, 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


145 


Proceed,  and  miss  not  of  our  end  ;  but 

these 
Are  SiOW  and  fearful :    with  uncertain 

pace, 
And  ever  reasoning  of  the  way,  they 

oft, 
After  all  reasoning,  choose  the  worser 

course. 
And,  plunged  in  swamp,  or  in  the  mat- 
ted growth 
Nigh  smothered  struggle,  all  to  reach 

a  goal 
Not  worth  their  pains."     Nor  do  they 

well  whose  work 
Is  still  to  feed  and  shelter  them  and 

theirs. 
Get  gain,    and    gathered  store  it,    to 

think  scorn 
Of   those   who   work  for  a  world  (no 

wages  paid 
By   a  Master  hid  in  light),  and  sent 

alone 
To  face  a  laughing  multitude,   whose 

eyes 
Are  full  of  damaging  pity,  that  forbears 
To  tell  the  harmless  laborer,    "Thou 

art  mad."] 


And  as  he  went,  he  thought:  "They 

counsel  me, 
Ay,  with  a  kind  of  reason  in  their  talk, 
'  Consider  ;  call  thy  soberer  thought  to 

aid ; 
Why  to  but  one  man  should  a  message 

come  ? 
And  why,  if  but  to  one,  to  thee  ?     Art 

thou 
Above  us,  greater,  wiser?     Had   He 

sent. 
He  had   willed  that  we  should  heed. 

Then  since  He  knoweth 
That  such  as  thou  a  wise  man  cannot 

heed, 
He  did  not  send.'     My  answer,  '  Great 

and  wise, 
If  He  had  sent  with  thunder,  and  a 

voice 
Leaping  from  heaven,  ye  must  have 

heard  ;  but  so 
Ye  had  been  robbed  of  choice,    and, 

like  the  beasts. 
Yoked  to  obedience.     God  makes  no 

men  slaves.' 


They  tell  me,  *  God  is  great  above  thy 

thought : 
He  meddles  not ;  and  this  small  world 

is  ours. 
These  many  hundred  years  we  govern 

it; 
Old     Adam,    after    Eden,    saw    Him 

not.' 
Then    I,    '  It   may   be    He  is  gone  to 

knead 
More   clay.      But   look,    my  masters ; 

one  of  you. 
Going  to  warfare,  layeth  up  his  gown. 
His  sickle,  or  his  gold,  and  thinks  no 

more 
Upon  it,  till  young  trees  have  waxen 

great ; 
At  last,   when  he   retunieth,   he  will 

seek 
His  own.    And  God,  shall  He  not  do 

the  like? 
And,  having  set  new  worlds  a-rolling, 

come 
And   say,    "  I   will   betake  Me  to  the 

earth 
That  I  did  make  ; "  and,  having  found 

it  vile. 
Be  sorry.     Why  should  man  be  free, 

you  wise, 
And  not  the  Master?'     Then  they  an- 
swer, '  Fool ! 
A  man  shall  cast  a  stone  into  the  air 
For  pastime,  or  for  lack  of  heed,  —  but 

He! 
Will  He  come  fingering  of  His  ended 

work. 
Fright  it  with  His  approaching  face,  or 

snatch 
One  day  the  rolling  wonder  from   its 

ring, 
And  hold   it  quivering,   as  a  wanton 

child 
Might  take  a  nestling  from  its  downy 

bed. 
And  having  satisfied  a  careless  wish. 
Go  thrust  it  back  into  its  place  again  ? ' 
To  such  I  answer^  and,  that  doubt  once 

mine, 
I  am  assured  that  I  do  speak  aright : 
'  Sirs,    the    significance   of    this    your 

_  doubt 
Lies  in  the  reason  of  it ;  ye  do  grudge 
That   these   your   lands    should    have 

another  Lord ; 


146 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Ye  are  not  loyal,  therefore  ye  would 

fain 
Your  King  would  bide  afar.     But  if  ye 

looked 
For  countenance  and  favor  when   He 

came, 
Knowing    yourselves    right    worthy, 

would  ye  care. 
With  cautious  reasoning,  deep  and  hard, 

to  prove 
That  He  would  never  come,  and  would 

your  wrath 
Be   hot   against  a  prophet?    Nay,    I 

wot 
That  as  a  flatterer  you  would  look  on 

him,  — 
''  Full  of  sweet  words  thy  mouth  is :  if 

He  come,  — 
We  think  not  that  He  will,  —  but  if 

He  come, 
Would  it  might  be  to-morrow,  or  to- 
night. 
Because  we  look  for  praise." ' " 

Now,  as  he  vi'ent, 
The  noontide  heats  came  on,  and  he 

grew  faint ; 
But  while  he  sat  below  an  almug-tree, 
A    slave    approached    with    greeting. 

"  Master,  hail!  " 
He  answered,  "  Hail !  what  wilt  thou  ? " 

Tlien  she  said, 
"The  palace  of  thy  fathers  standeth 

nigh." 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  he ;  and  she  said 

again, 
"The    Elder,   learning   thou   wouldst 

pass,  hath  sent 
To  fetch   thee."     Then  he  rose   and 

followed  her. 
So  first   they  walked  beneath  a  lofty 

roof 
Of  living  bough  and  tendril,  woven  on 

high 
To  let  no  drop  of  sunshme  through, 

and  hung 
With  gold  and  purple  fruitage,  and  the 

white 
Thick  cups  of  scented  blossom.     Un- 
derneath, 
Soft  grew  the  sward  and  delicate,  and 

flocks 
Of  egrets,  ay,  and  many  cranes,  stood 

up. 


Fanning  their  wings,  to  agitate  and 
cool 

The  noonday  air,  as  men  with  heed 
and  pains 

Had  taught  them,  marshalling  and  tam- 
ing them 

To  bear  the  wind  in  on  their  moving 
wings. 

So  long  time  as  a  nimble  slave  would 

spend 
In  milking  of  her  cow,  they  walked  at 

ease ; 
Then  reached  the  palace,  all  of  forest 

trunks. 
Brought  whole  and  set  together,  made. 

Therein 
Had  dwelt  old  Adam,  when  his  mighty 

sons 
Had  finished  it,  and  up  to  Eden  gate 
Had    journeyed    for    to    fetch    him- 

"  Here,"  they  said, 
"  Mother  and  father,    ye   may   dwell, 

and  here 
Forget  the  garden  wholly." 

So  he  came 

Under  the  doorplace,  and  the  women 
sat. 

Each  with  her  finger  on  her  lips ;  but 
he. 

Having  been  called,  went  on,  until  he 
reached 

The  jewelled  settle,  wrought  with  cun- 
ning work 

Of  gold  and  ivory,  whereon  they  wont 

To  set  the  Elder.  All  with  sleekest 
skins. 

That  striped  and  spotted  creatures  of 
the  wood 

Had  worn,  the  seat  was  covered,  but 
thereon 

The  Elder  was  not :  by  the  steps  there- 
of, 

Upon  the  floor,  whereto  his  silver 
beard 

Did  reach,  he  sat,  and  he  was  in  his 
trance. 

Upon  the  settle  many  doves  were  per- 
ched, 

That  set  the  air  a-going  with  their 
wings : 

These  opposite,  the  world's  great  shii>- 
wrisht  stood 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


To  wait  the  burden ;   and  the   Elder 

spake : 
"Will     He    forget    me?     Would    He 

might  forget! 
Old,  old!     The  liope  of  old  Methuse- 
lah 
Is  all   in    His    forgetfulness."      With 

that, 
A  slave-girl  took  a  cup  of  wine,  and 

crept 
Anear  him,    saying,    "Taste;"     and 

when  his  lips 
Had  touched  it,  lo,  he  trembled,  and 

he  cried, 
"  Behold,  I  prophesy." 

Then  straight  they  fled 
That  were  about  him,   and  did  stand 

apart 
And   stop   their   ears.      For  he,   from 

time  to  time, 
Was  plagued  with  that   same  fate   to 

prophesy. 
And  spake  against  himself,  against  his 

day 
And  time,  in  words  that  all  men  did 

abhor. 
Therefore,  he,  warning  them  what  time 

the  fit 
Came  on  him,  saved  them,  that  they 

heard  it  not. 
So  while  they  fled,  he  cried:   "I  saw 

the  God 
Reach  out  of   heaven   His  wonderful 

right  hand. 
Lo,  lo!    He  dipped  it  in  the  unquiet 

sea. 
And  in  its  curved  palm  behold  the  ark. 
As  in  a  vast  calm  lake,  came  floating 

on. 
Ay,  then,  His  other  hand  —  the  cursing 

liand  — 
He  took  and  spread  between  us  and  the 

sun. 
And  all  was  black ;  the  day  was  blotted 

"out. 
And    horrible    staggering    took    the 

frighted  earth. 
I  heard  the  water  hiss,  and  then  me- 

thinks 
The  crack   as   of   her  splitting.      D!d 

she  take 
Their   palaces   that   are    my    brothers 

dear. 


And  huddle    them   with   all  their  an- 
ciently 
Under  into  her  breast  ?     If  it  was  black, 
How  could  this  old  man  see?     There 

was  a  noise 
I'  the   dark,    and    He   drew  back  His 

hand  ag:iin 
I    looked It    was   a  dream,  —  let 

no  man  say 
It  was  aught  else.     There,  so  —  the  fit 

goes  by. 
Sir,  and  my  daughters,  is  it  eventide  ?  — 
Sooner  than   that,   saith    old    Methu- 
selah, 
Let  the  vulture  lay   his   beak    to   my 

green  limbs. 
What!     art  Thou  envious? — are  the 

sons  of  men 
Too  wise  to  please  Thee,  and  to  do  Thy 

will  ? 
Methuselah,  he  sitteth  on  the  ground, 
Clad  in  his  gown  of  age,  the  pale  white 

gown. 
And    goeth    not    forth    to     war;    his 

wrinkled  hands 
He   ciaspeth   round  his    knees :    old, 

very  old. 
Would  he  could  steal  from  Thee  one 

secret  more  — 
The  secret  of  Thy  youth  !     O,  envious 

God! 
We  die.     The  words  of  old  Methuselah 
And  his  prophecy  are  ended." 


Then  the  wives. 
Beholding  how  he  trembled,  and  the 

maids 
And    children,    came     anear,    saying, 

"  Who  art  thou 
That  standest  gazing  on  the  Elder?  Lo, 
Thou  dost  not  well :  withdraw ;  for  it 

was  thou 
Whose  stranger  presence  troubled  him, 

and  brought 
The   fit   of  prophecy."     And  he   did 

turn 
To  look  upon  them,  and  their  majestjf 
And    glorious    beauty  took  away   his 

words ; 
And,  being  pure   among  the  vile,  he 

cast 
In  his   thought  a  veil   of  snow-white 

purity 


148 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM- 


Over  tlie  beauteous  throng.     "Thou 

dost  not  well," 
They  said.     He  answered  :  "Blossoms 

o'  the  world, 
Fruitful  as  fair,  never  in  watered  glade, 
Where  in  the  youngest  grass  blue  cups 

push  forth, 
And  the  white  lily  reareth  up  her  head, 
And   purples  cluster,   and  the  saffron 

flower. 
Clear  as  a  flame  of  sacrifice,  breaks  out, 
And  every  cedar-bough,  made  delicate 
With  climbing  roses,   di'ops   m   white 

and  red,  — 
Saw  I  (good  angels  keep  you  in  their 

care) 
So  beautiful  a  crowd." 

With  that  they  stamped, 
Gnashed  their  white  teeth,  and,  turn- 
ing, fled  and  spat 
Upon  the  floor.     The  Elder  spake  to 

him, 
Yet  shaking  with  the  burden,       \\  ho 

art  thou?" 
He  answered :  "  I,  the  man  whom  thou 

didst  send 
To  fetch  through  this  thy  woodland,  do 

forbear 
To  tell  my  name ;   thou  lovest  it  not, 

great  sire, — 
No,  nor  mine  errand.     To  thy  house 

I  spake, 
Touching  their  beauty."     "  ^  herefore 
didst  thou  spite,"  . 

Quoth  he,   "the   daughters?'     and  it 

seemed  he  lost 
Count  of  that  prophecy,  for  very  age. 
And  from  his  thin  lips  dropt  a  trembling 

laugh. 
"Wicked  old  man,"  quoth  he,      this 

wise  old  man 
I  see  as 'twere  not  I.     Thou  bad  old 

man. 
What  shall  be  done  to  thee?  for  thou 

didst  bum 
Their  babes,  and  strew  the  ashes  all 

about, 
To  rid  the  world  of  His  white  soldiers. 

Ay, 
Scenting'  of  human  sacrifice,  they  fled. 
Cowards  !     I  heard  them  winnow  their 
great  wings : 


They  went  to  tell  Him  ;  but  they  came 

no  more. 
The  women  hate  to  hear  of   them,  so 

sore 
They   grudged  their  little  ones  ;    and 

yet  no  wav 
There  was  but  that.     I  took  it ;  I  did 

well." 

With  that  he  fell  to  weeping.  "  Son," 
said  he, 

"  Long  have  I  hid  mine  eyes  from  stal- 
wart men, 

For  it  is  hard  to  lose  the  majesty 

And  pride  and  power  of  manhood  :  but 
to-day. 

Stand  forth  into  the  light,  that  I  may 
look 

Upon  thy  strength,  and  think,  Even 
thus  did  i, 

In  the  glory  of  my  youth,  mors 
LIKE  TO  God 

Than  like  His  soldiers,  face  the 

VASSAL  world." 

Then  Noah  stood  forward  in  his  maj- 
esty, 

Shouldering  the  golden  billhook,  where- 
withal 

He  wont  to  cut  his  way,  when  tangled 
in 

The  matted  hayes.  And  down  the 
opened  roof 

Fell  slanting  beams  upon  his  stately 
head. 

And  streamed  along  his  gown,  and 
made  to  shine 

The  jewelled  sandals  on  his  feet. 

And,  !o, 
The  Elder  cried  aloud :   "  I  prophesy. 
Behold,  my  son  is  as  a  fruitful  field 
When   all 'the  lands  are  waste.     The 

archers  drew,  — 
They  drew  the  bow  against  him  ;  they 

were  fain 
To  slay :  but  he  shall  live,  —  my  son 

shall  live. 
And  I  shall  live  by  him  in  the  other 

davs. 
Behold  the  prophet  of  the  Most  High 

God : 
Hear  him.     Behold   the  hope   o    the 

world,  what  time 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


149 


She  lieth  under.     Hear  him  ;  he  shall 

save 
A  seed  alive,  and  sow  the  earth  with 

man. 
Dearth!   earth!   earth!  a  floating  shell 

fif  wood 
Shall  hold  tlie  remnant  of  thy  mighty 

lords. 
Will  this  old  man  be  in  it?     Sir,  and 

you. 
My   daughters,   hear  him!      Lo,    this 

white  old  man 
He  sitteth  on  the  ground.     (Let  be,  let 

be: 
Why  dost  Thou  trouble  us  to  make  our 

tongue 
Ring  with  abhorred  words  ?)     The  pro- 
phecy 
Of  the  Elder,  and  the  vision  that  he 

saw. 
They  both  are  ended." 

Then  said  Noah:   ''The  life 
Of  this  my  lord  is  low  for  very  age : 
Why,  then,  with  bitter  words  upon  thy 

tongue, 
Father  of    Lamech,   dost  thou  anger 

Him? 
Thou    canst    not   strive    against   Him 

now."     He  said: 
"  Thy  feet  are  toward  the  valley,  where 

lie  bones 
Bleaching  upon  the  desert.     Did  I  love 
The  lithe  strong  lizards  that  I  yoked 

and  set 
To  draw  my  car?  and  were  they  not 

possessed  ? 
Yea,  all  of  them  were  liars.     I  loved 

them  well. 
What  did  the  Enemy,  but  on  a  day 
When   I  behind  my  talking  team  went 

fortli. 
They  sweetly  lying,  so  that  all  men 

praised 
Their  flattering  tongues  and  mild  per- 
suasive eyes,  — 
What   did  the    Enemy   but  send  His 

slaves. 
Angels,  to  cast  down  stones  upon  their 

heads 
And  break  them?     Nay,    I   could  not 

stir  abroad 
But  havoc  came  ;  they  never  crept  or 

flew 


Beyond    the     shelter   that    I    builded 

here. 
But  straight  the  crowns  I  had  set  upon 

their  heads 
Were  marks  for  myrmidons  that  in  the 

clouds 
Kept  w  atch  to  crush  them.     Can  a  man 

forgive 
That  hath  been  warred  on  thus  ?     I  will 

not.     Nay, 
I  swear  it,  —  I,  the  man  Methuselah." 
The    Master-shipwright,    he     replied, 

"  'T  is  true, 
Great  loss  was  that ;  but  they  that  stood 

thy  friends. 
The  wicked  spirits,  spoke  upon  their 

tongues, 
And  cursed  the  God  of  heaven.     What 

marvel,  sir. 
If  He  was  angered?"     But  the  Elder 

cried : 
"They    all    are    dead, — the    toward 

beasts  I  loved ; 
My  goodly  team,  my  joy,  they  all  are 

dead ; 
Their  bones  lie  bleaching  in  the  wilder- 
ness : 
And   I   will   keep  my  wrath  for  ever- 
more 
Against  the  Enemy  that  slew  them.  Go, 
Thou  coward  servant  of  a  tyrant  King, 
Go  down  the  desert  of  the  bones,  and 

ask, 
'  My  King,  what  bones  are  these  ?   Me- 
thuselah, 
The  white  old  man  that  sitteth  on  the 

ground, 
Sendeth  a  message,    "  Bid  them  that 

they  live. 
And  let  my  lizards  run  up  every  path 
They  wont  to  take  when  out  of  silver 

pipes, 
The  pipes  that  Tubal  wrought  into  my 

roof, 
I  blew  a  sweeter  cry  than  song-bird's 

throat 
Hath  ever  formed ;  and  while  they  laid 

their  heads 
Submiss    upon    my  threshold,  poured 

away 
Music  that  welled  by  heartsful  out,  and 

made 
The  throats  of  men  that  heard  to  swell, 

their  breasts 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


To  heave  with  the  joy  of  grief ;  yea, 

caused  the  lips 
To  laugh  of  men  asieep. 

Return  to  me 
The  great  wise  lizards ;  ay,  and  them 

that  flew 
My  pursuivants  before  me.      Let  me 

yoke 
Again    that    multitude;     and    here    I 

swear 
That  they  shall  draw  my  car  and  me 

thereon 
Straight  to  the  ship  of  doom.     So  men 

shall  know 
My  lovaltv,  that  I  submit,  and  Thou 
Shalt  yet  have  honor,  O  mine  Enemy, 
By  me.    The  speech  of  old  Methuse- 
lah." '  " 

Then  Noah  made   answer,    "  By  the 

living  God, 
That  is  no  enemy  to  men,  great  sire, 
1  will  not  take  thy  message  ;  hear  thou 

Him. 
'  Behold  (He  saith  that  sufFereth  thee), 

behold, 
The  earth  that  I  made  green  cries  out 

to  Me, 
Red  with  the  costly  blood  of  beauteous 

man. 
I  am  robbed,  I  am  robbed  (He  saith) ; 

they  sacrifice 
To  evil  demons  of  My  blameless  flocks. 
That    I   did  fashion  with   My   hand. 

Behold, 
How  goodly  was  the  world!     I  gave  it 

thee 
Fresh  from  its  finishing.     What  hast 

thou  done  ? 
I  will  cry  out  to  the  waters,  Cover  it, 
And  hide   it  front  its  Father.     Lo, 

Mifte  eyes 
Tur7i  front  it  shamed.^  " 

With  that  the  old  man  laughed 

Full  softly.  "Ay,"  quoth  he,  "a 
goodly  world. 

And  we  have  done  with  it  as  we  did 
list. 

Why  did  he  give  it  us?  Nay,  look 
you,  son : 

Five  score  they  were  that  died  in  yon- 
der waste ; 


And  if  He  crieth,  '  Repent,  be  recon- 
ciled,' 

I  answer,  '  Nay,  my  lizards ; '  and 
again. 

If  He  win  trouble  me  in  this  mine  age, 

'  Why  hast  Thou  slaiu  my  lizards  i ' 
Now  my  speech 

Is  cut  away  from  all  my  other  words, 

Standing  alone.  The  Elder  sweareth 
it) 

The  man  of  many  days,  Methuselah." 

Then  answered  Noah,  "My  Master, 

hear  it  not ; 
But  yet  have  patience  ; "  and  he  turned 

himself. 
And  down  betwixt  the  ordered  trees 

went  forth. 
And  in  the  light  of  evening  made  his 

way 
Into  the  waste  to  meet  the  Voice  of 

God. 


Above  the  head  of  great  Methuselah 
There  lay  two  demons  in   the  oi-eued 

roof 
Invisible,  and  gathered  up  his  words  ; 
For  when   the   Elder    prophesied,    it 

came 
About,  that  hidden  things  were  shown 

to  them, 
And  burdens  that  he  spake  against  his 

time. 

(But  never  heard  them,  such  as  dwelt 

with  him ; 
Their  ears  they  stopped,  and  willed  to 

live  at  ease 
In   all    delight ;    and   perfect   in   their 

youth. 
And  stronsr,  disport  them  in  the  perfect 

world.) 

Now    these    were    fettered  that   they 

could  not  fly, 
For  a  certain  disobedience   they  had 

wrought 
Against  the  ruler  of  their  host ;  but  not 
The  less  they  loved  their  cause ;  and 

when  the  feet 
O'  the  Master-builder  were  no  longer 

heard, 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


iS« 


They,  slipping  to  the  sward,  right  pain- 
fully 

Did  follow,  for  the  one  to  the  other 
said, 

"  Behooves  our  master  know  of  this  ; 
and  us, 

Should  he  be  favorable,  he  may  loose 

From  these  our  bonds." 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass. 

That  while  at  dead  of  night  the  old 
dragon  lay 

Coiled  in  the  cavern  where  he  dwelt, 
the  watch 

Pacing  before  it  saw  in  middle  air 

A  boat,  tliat  gleamed  like  fire,  and  on 
it  came. 

And  rocked  as  it  drew  near,  and  then 
it  burst 

And  went  to  pieces,  and  there  fell  there- 
from. 

Close  at  the  cavern's  mouth,  two  glow- 
ing balls. 

Now  there  was  drawn  a  curtain  nigh 

the  mouth 
Of  that  deep  cave,  to  testify  of  wxath. 
The  dragon  had  been  wroth  with  some 

that  served. 
And  chased  them  from  him ;  and  his 

oracles. 
That  wont   to   drop   from   him,    were 

stopped,  and  men 
Might  only  pray  to  him  through  that 

fell  web 
That   hung  before    him.       Then    did 

whisper  low 
Some  of  the  little  spirits  that,  bat-like, 

clung 
And     cluster'd     round     the    opening. 

"  Lo,"  they  said, 
While  gazed   the   watch    upon    those 

glowing  balls, 
"  These  are  like  moons  eclipsed  ;  but 

let  them  lie 
Red  on  the  moss,  and  sear  its  dewy 

spires. 
Until  our  lord  give  leave  to  draw  the 

web, 
And  quicken  reverence  by  his  presence 

dread, 
For  he  will  know  and  ca!l  to  them  by 

uame, 


And  they  will  change.     At  present  he 

is  sick. 
And  wills  that  none  disturb  him."     So 

they  lay. 
And  there  was  silence,  for  the  forest 

tribes 
Came  never  near  that  cave.     Wiser 

than  men. 
They  fled  the  serpent  hiss  that  oft  by 

night 
Came  forth  of  it,  and  feared  the  wan 

dusk  forms 
That  stalked  among  the  trees,  and  in 

the  dark 
Those  whiffs  of  flame  that  wandered  up 

the  sky 
And  made  the  moonlight  sickly. 


Now,  the  cave 
Was  marvellous  for  beauty,   wrought 

with  tools 
Into  the   living  rock,   for    there    had 

worked 
All  cunning  men,  to  cut  on  it  with  signs 
And  shows,  yea,  all  the  manner  of  man- 
kind. 
The  fateful  apple-tree  was    there,    a 

bough 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  him  that  us 

beguiled  ; 
And  lilies  of  the  field  did  seem  to  blow 
And  bud  in  the  storied  stone.     There 

Tubal  sat, 
Who  from  his   harp  delivered  music, 

sweet 
As  any  in  the  spheres.     Yea,  more  ; 
Earth's  latest  wonder  on  the  walls  ap- 
peared. 
Unfinished,  workmen  clustering  on  its 

ribs  ; 
And    farther    back,   within    the    rock 

hewn  out, 
Angelic   figures    stood,    that    impious 

hands 
Had  fashioned ;    many  golden   lamps 

they  held 
By  golden  chains  depending,  and  their 

eyes 
All  tended  in  a  reverent  quietude 
Toward  the  couch  whereon  the  dragon 

lay. 
The  floor  was  beaten  gold ;  the  curly 

lengths 


152 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Of  his  last  coils  lay  on   it,  hid  from 
sight 

With  a  coverlet  made  stiff  with  crust- 
ing gems, 

Fire-opals  shooting,  rubies,  fierce  bright 
eyes 

Of  diamonds,  or  the  pale  green  emer- 
ald, 

That  changed  their  lustre    when    he 
breathed. 

His  head. 

Feathered  with  crimson  combs,  and  all 
his  neck, 

And    haif-shut    fans    of    his    admired 
wings, 

That  in   their  scaly    splendor  put  to 
shame 

Or  gold  or  stone,  lay  on  his  ivory  couch 

And  shivered  ;  for  the  dragon  suffered 
pain  : 

He  suffered  and  he  feared.     It  was  his 
doom. 

The  tempter,  that  he  never  should  de- 
part 

From  the  bright  creature  that  in  Para- 
dise 

He  for  his  evil  purpose  erst  possessed. 

Until   it   died.      Thus  only,   spirit   of 
might 

And  chiefest  spirit  of  ill,  could  he  be 
free. 

But  with  its  nature  wed,  as  souls  of 

men 
Are  wedded  to  their  clay,  he  took  the 

dread 
Of  death  and  djnng,  and    the  coward 

heart 
Of  the  beast,  and  craven  terrors  of  the 

end 
Sank  him  that  habited  within    it    to 

dread 
Disunion.     He,  a  dark  dominion  erst 
Rebellious,   lay  and  trembled,  for  the 

flesh 
Daunted  his  immaterial.     He  was  sick 
And  sorry.     Great  ones  of  the  earth 

had  sent 
Their  chief  musicians  for  to  comfort 

him, 
ChantincT  his  praise,  the  friend  of  man, 

the  god 
That  gave  them  knowledge,  at  so  great 

a  price 


And  costly.     Yea,   the  riches    of    the 

mine, 
And  glorious  broidered  work,  and  woven 

gold. 
And  all  things  wisely  made,  they  at  his 

feet 
Laid    daily;     for    they    said,    "This 

mighty  one. 
All  the  world  wonders  after  him.     He 

lieth 
Sick  in  his  dwelling  ;  he  hath  long  fore- 
gone 
(To  do  us  good)  dominion,  and  a  throne, 
And  his  brave  warfare  with  the  Enemy, 
So  much  he  pitie.h  us  that  were  denied 
The  gain  and  gladness  of  this  knowl- 
edge.    Now 
Shall  he  be  certified  of  gratitude, 
And  smell  the  sacrifice  that  most  he 
loves." 

The  night  was  dark,  but  every  lamp 

gave  forth 
A  tender,  lustrous  beam.      His  beau- 
teous wngs 
The  dragon   fluttered,    cursed   awhile, 

then  turned 
And  moaned  with  lamentable  voice,  "  I 

thirst, 
Give  me  to  drink."     Thereon  stepped 

out  in  haste. 
From   inner  chambers,    lovely    minis- 

trants. 
Young  boys,    with  radiant  locks   and 

peaceful  eyes. 
And  poured  out  liquor  from  their  cups 

to  cool 
His  parched  tongue,  and  kneeling  held 

it  nigh 
In  jewelled  basins  sparkling ;  and  he 

lapped, 
And  was  appeased,  and  said,  "  I  will 

not  hide 
Longer    my   much-desired    face    from 

men. 
Draw  back   the   web    of  separation." 

Then 
With  cries  of  gratulation  ran  they  forth. 
And  flung  it  vvide,  and  all  the  watch  fell 

low. 
Each  on  his  face,  as  drunk  with  sudden 

joy-  ,    . 

Thus   marked    he,    glownng     on     the 
branched  moss. 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


153 


Those  red  rare  moons,  and  let  his  ser- 
pent eyes 
Consider  them  full  subtly,   "  What  be 

these?" 
Inquiring:  and  the  little  spirits  said, 
"  As   we   for   thy    protection    (having 

heard 
That  wrathful   sons  of  darkness  walk 

to-night, 
Such  as  do  oft  ill-use  us)  clustered  here, 
We  marked  a  boat  afire,  that  sailed  the 

skies, 
And  furrowed  up  like  spray  a  billowy 

cloud, 
And,  lo,  it  went   to  pieces,    scattering 

down 
A  rain  of  sparks  and  these  two  angry 

moons." 
Then  said  the  dragon,  "  Let  my  guard, 

and  you, 
Attendant  hosts,   recede;"     and   they 

went  back, 
And  formed  about  the  cave  a  widen- 
ing ring. 
Then,  halting,  stood  afar;   and   from 

the  cave 
The  snaky  wonder  spoke,  with  hissing 

tongue, 
"  If  ye  were  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 
Be  Tartis  and  Deleisonon  once  more." 

Then  egg-like  cracked  the  glowing 
balls,  and  forth 

Started  black  angels,  trampling  hard  to 
free 

Tiieir  fettered  feet  from  out  the  smok- 
ing shell. 

And  he  said,  "  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 
Your  lord  I  am:  draw  nigh."     "Thou 

art  our  lord," 
They  answered,  and  with  fettered  limbs 

full  low 
They  bent,  and  made  obeisance.     Fur- 
thermore, 
"O  fiery  flying  serpent,  after  whom 
The  nations  go,  let  thy  dominion  last," 
They  said,    "  forever."     And  the  ser- 
pent said, 
"It  shall:    unfold  your  errand."     They 

replied. 
One  speaking  for  a  space,  and  after- 
ward 


His  fellow  taking  up  the   word  with 

fear. 
And  panting,  "  We  were  set  to  watch 

the  mouth 
Of  great  Methuselah.     There  came  to 

him 
The  son  of  Lamech  two  days  since." 

"My  lord. 
They  prophesied,  the  Elder  prophesied, 
Unwitting,  of  the  flood  of  waters,  —  ay, 
A  vision  was  before  him,  and  the  lands 
Lay   under  water  drowned.     He  saw 

the  ark,  — 
It  floated  in  the  Enemy's  right  hand." 
"  Lord  of  the  lost,  the  son  of  Lamech 

fled 
Into  the  wilderness  to  meet  His  voice 
Tint  reigneth  ;  and  we,  diligent  to  hear 
Aught  that  might  serve  thee,  followed, 

but,  forbid 
To  enter,  lay  upon  its  boundary  cliff, 
And  wished  for  morning." 

"  When  the  dawn  was  red 
We  sought  the  man,  we  marked  him ; 

and  he  prayed,  — 
Kneeling,  he  prayed  in  the  valley,  and 

he  said  —  " 
"Nay,"  quoth  the  serpent,  "spare  me, 

what  devout 
He  fawning  grovelled  to  the  All-power- 
ful; 
But  if  of  vvhat  shall  hap  he  aught  let  fall. 
Speak  that."     They  answered,    "He 

did  pray  as  one 
That  looketh   to  outlive    mankind,  — 

and  more, 
We  are  certified  by  all   his   scattered 

words, 
That    He   will   take    from    men   their 

length  of  days, 
And  cut  them  off  like  grass  in  its  first 

flower  : 
From  henceforth  this  shall  be." 

That  when  he  heard, 
The   dragon   made   to  the    night    his 
moan. 

"And  more," 
They  said,  "  that  He  above  would  have 

men  know 
That    He  doth  love  them,  whoso  will 
repent. 


IS4 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


To  that  man  He  is  favorable,  yea, 
Will  be  his  loving  Lord." 

The  dragon  cried, 
"The  last  is  worse  than  all.      O  man, 

thy  heart 
Is  stout  against   His  wrath.     But  will 

He  love  ? 
I  heard  it  rumored  in  the  heavens  of 

old 
(And  doth  He  love  ?).     Thou  wilt  not, 

canst  not,  stand 
Against   the   love  of  God.     Dominion 

fails ; 
I  see  it  tloat  from  me,  that  long  have 

worn 
Fetters  of  flesh  to   win  it.     Love  of 

God! 
I  cry  against  thee ;  thou  art  worse  than 

•  all." 
They  answered,   "  Be  not  moved,  ad- 
mired ch:ef 
And  trusted  of  mankind ; ' '   and  they 

went  on. 
And  fed  him  with  the  prophecies  that 

fell 
From    the    Master-shipwright   in    his 

prayer. 

But  prone 
He  lay,  for  he  was  sick :  at  every  word 
Prophetic    cowering.     As    a    bruising 

blow, 
It  fell  upon  his  head  and  daunted  him. 
Until  they  ended,  saying,  "  Prince,  be- 
hold. 
Thy  servants  have  revealed  the  whole." 

Thereon 
He  out  of   snaky  lips  did  hiss  forth 

thanks. 
Then  said  he,  "  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 
Receive  your  wages."     So  their  fetters 

fell ; 
And  they,   retiring,  lauded   him,    and 

cried, 
"King,    reign    forever"        Then    he 

mourned,  "  Amen." 

And  he , — being  left  alone,  —  he  said : 

"  A  light"! 
I  see  a  light,  —  a  star  among  the  trees, — 
Au  angel."     And  it  drew  toward  the 

cave, 


But  with  its  sacred  feet  touched  not 

the  grass. 
Nor  lifted  up  the  lids  of  its  pure  eyes. 
But  hung  a  span's   length  from  that 

ground  pollute. 
At  the  opening  of  the  cave. 

And  when  he  looked. 
The     dragon     cried,     "  Thou     newly- 
fashioned  thing. 
Of  name  unknown,  thy  scorn  becomes 

thee  not. 
Doth  not  thy  Master  suffer  what  thine 

eyes 
Thou  couutest  all  too  clean  to  open 

on  ? " 
But  etill  it  hovered,  and  the  quietness 
Of  holy  heaven  was  on  the  drooping 

lids ; 
And  not  as  one  that  ansvvereth,  it  let 

fall 
The  music  from  its  mouth,  but  like  to 

one 
That  doth  not  hear,  or,  hearing,  doth 

not  heed. 

"  A    message :    '  I    have    heard    thee, 

while  remote 
I  went  My  rounds  among  the  unfinished 

stars.' 
A  mess.ige :  '  I  have  left  thee  to  thy 

ways, 
And  mastered  all  thy  vileness,  for  thy 

hate 
I  have  made  to  serve  the  ends  of  My 

great  love. 
Hereafter  will  I  chain  thee  down.     To- 
day 
One   thing   thou   art  forbidden ;    now 

thou  knowest 
The  name  thereof:  I  told  it  thee  in 

heaven. 
When   thou   wert   sitting   at  My  feet. 

Forbear 
To  let  that  hidden  thing  be  whispered 

forth : 
For  man,  ungrateful  (and  thy  hope  it 

was. 
That  so  ungrateful  he  might    prove), 

would  scorn. 
And  not   believe  it,  adding    so    fresh 

weight 
Of  condemnation  to  the  doomed  world. 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM. 


"SS 


Concerning  that,   thou   art  forbid    to 

speak  ; 
Know  thou  didst  count  it,  falling  from 

My  tongue, 
A   lovely  song,   whose    meaning   was 

unknown, 
Unknowable,  unbearable  to  thought. 
But  sweeter  in   the   hearing  than   all 

harps 
Toned    in    My    holy    hollow.       Now 

thine  ears 
Are  opened,  know  it,  and  discern  and 

fear, 
Forbearing  speech  of  it  for  evermore." 

So  said,   it  turned,  and  with  a  cry  of 

joy. 

As  one  released,  went  up :  and  it  was 

dawn. 
And  all  boughs  dropped  with  dew,  and 

out  of  mist 
Came  the  red  sun  and  looked  into  the 

cave. 

But  the  dragon,  left  a-tremble,  called 

to  him. 
From  the  nether  kingdom,  certain  of 

his  friends,  — 
Three   whom   he    trusted,    councillors 

accursed. 
A    thunder-cloud     stooped     low    and 

swathed  the  place 
In  its  black  swirls,  and  out  of  it  they 

rushed, 
And  hid  them  in  recesses  of  the  cave. 
Because  they  could  not  look  upon  the 

sun, 
Sith  light  is  pure.     And  Satan  called 

to  them,  — 
All  in  the  dark,  in  his  great  rage  he 

spake : 
"Up,"  quotli  the  dragon;  "it  is  time 

to  work. 
Or  we  are  all  undone"     And  he  did 

hiss, 
And  there  came  shudderings  over  land 

and  trees, 
A   dimness    after    dawn.      The   earth 

threw  out 
A  blinding  fog,   that  crept  toward  the 

cave, 
And  rolled  up  blank  before   it  like  a 

veili  — 


A  curtain  to  conceal  its  habiters. 
Then  did  those  spirits  move  upon  the 

floor. 
Like  pillars  of  darkness,  and  with  eyes 

aglow. 
One   had  a  helm  for  covering  of  the 

scars 
That  seamed  what  rested  of  a  goodly 

face  ; 
He  wore  his  vizor  up,  and  all  his  words 
Were  hollower  than  an  echo  from  the 

hills: 
He  was  hight  Make.     And  lo,  his  fel- 
low-fiend 
Came  after,  holding  down  his  dastard 

head. 
Like  one  ashamed :  now  this  for  craft 

was  great ; 
The  dragon  honored  him.     A  third  sat 

down 
Among  them,  covering  with  Iiis  wasted 

hand 
Somewhat  that  pained  his  breast. 

And  when  the  fit 
Of  thunder,  and  the  sobbings  of  the 

wind. 
Were    lulled,   the   dragon  spoke  with 

wrath  and  rage, 
And  told  them  of  his  matters:   "  Look 

to  this. 
If  ye  be  loyal;"  adding,  "Give  your 

thoughts. 
And  let  me  have  your  counsel  in  this 

need." 

One  spirit  rose  and  spake,  and  all  the 

cave 
Was   full   of    sighs,    "  The   words    of 

Make  the  Prince, 
Of  him  once  delegate  in  Betelgeux  : 
Whereas    of    late    the    manner  is  to 

change. 
We  know  not  where  'twill  end ;    and 

now  my  words 
Go  thus :  give  way,   be  peaceable,  lie 

still 
And  strive  not,  else  the  world  that  we 

have  won 
He  may,   to   drive   us   out,   reduce  to 

naught. 

"  For  while  I  stood  in  mine  obedience 
yet, 


iS6 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Steering  of  Betelgeux  my  sun,  behold, 
A  moon,  that  evil  ones  did  fill,  rolled 

up 
Astray,  and  suddenly  the  Master  came, 
And  while,  a  million  strong,  like  rooks 

they  rose, 
He  took  and  broke  it,  flung  it  here  and 

there. 
And  called  a  blast  to  drive  the  powder 

forth  ; 
And  it  was  fine  as  dust,    and  blun-ed 

the  skies 
Farther    than  'tis  from  hence  to   this 

young  sun. 
Spirits  that  passed  upon  their  work  that 

day, 
Cried   out,    "  How  dusty  'tis."       Be- 
hooves us,  then, 
That  we  depart,  as  leaving  unto  Him 
This  goodly  world  and  goodiy  race  of 

man. 
Not  all  are  doomed :  hereafter  it  may 

be 
That  we  find  place  on  it  again.     But  if. 
Too  zealous  to  preserve   it,   and  the 

men 
Our  servants,  we  oppose  Him,  He  may 

come, 
And,  choosing  rather  to  undo  His  work 
Than  strive  w'ith  it  for  aye,  make  so  an 

He  sighing  paused.  Lo,  then  the  ser- 
pent hissed 

In  impotent  rage,  "  Depart !  and  how 
depart ! 

Can  flesh  be  carried  down  where  spirits 
wonn  ? 

Or  I,  most  miserable,  hold  my  life 

Over  the  airless,  bottomless  gulf,  and 
bide 

The  buffetings  of  yonder  shoreless  sea  ? 

O  death,  thou  terrible  doom  :  O  death, 
thou  dread 

Of  all  that  breathe." 

A  spirit  rose  and  spake : 
Whereas  in  Heaven  is  power,  is  much 
to  fear  ; 
For    this    admired    country  we    have 

marred. 
Whereas  in  Heaven  is  love  (and  there 

are  days 
When  vet  I  can  recall  what  love  was 
like), 


Is  naught  to  fear.   A  threatening  makes 

the  whole. 
And   clogged  with  strong  conditions : 

'  O,  repent, 
Man,    and    1    turn.'     He,    therefore, 

powerful  now. 
And  more  so,  master,  that  ye  bide  in 

clay, 
Threateneth  that  He  may  save.     They 

shall  not  die." 

The  dragon  said,  "  I  tremble,  I  am 
sick." 

He  said  with  pain  of  heart,  "  How  am 
1  fallen  ! 

For  I  keep  silence ;  yea,  I  have  with- 
drawn 

From  haunting  of  His  gates,  and  shout- 
ing up 

Defiance.  Wherefore  doth  He  liunt  me 
out 

From  this  small  world,  this  little  one, 
that  I 

Have  been  content  to  take  unto  myself, 

1  here  being  loved  and  worshipped? 
He  knoweth 

How  much  1  have  foregone ;  and  must 
He  stoop 

To  whelm  the  world,  and  heave  the 
floors  o'  the  deep. 

Of  purpose  to  pursue  me  from  my 
place  ? 

And  since  I  gave  men  knowledge,  must 
He  take 

Their  length  of  days  whereby  they  per- 
fect it  ? 

So  shall  He  scatter  all  that  I  have 
stored. 

And  get  them  by  degrading  them.  I 
know 

That  in  the  end  it  is  appointed  me 

To  fade.  I  will  not  fade  before  the 
time." 

A  spirit  rose,  the  third,  a  spirit 
ashamed 

And  subtle,  and  his  face  he  turned 
aside : 

"Whereas,"  said  he,  "we  strive 
against  both  power 

And  love,  behooves  us  that  we  strive 
aright. 

Now  some  of  old  my  comrades  yester- 
day 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


'57 


I  met,  as  they  did  journey  to  appear 
In    tlie   Presence;    and   1   said,    'My 

master  lieth 
Sick  yonder,  otlierwise  (for  no  decree 
Tiiere  stands  agaaist  it)  he  wouid  aiso 

come 
And  make  obeisance  wilh  the  sons  of 

God.' 
They      answered,      naught     denying. 

Therefore,  lord, 
'T  is  certain  that  ye  have  admittance 

yet ; 
And  what  doth  hinder?     Nothing  but 

this  breath. 
Were  it  not  well  to  make  an  end,  and 

die, 
And  gain   admittance  to  the   King  of 

kings  ? 
What   if    thy   slaves    by   thy   consent 

should  take 
And   bear  thee  on  their  wings  above 

the  earth, 
And    suddenly    let    fall,  —  how     soon 

'  t  were  o'  er ! 
We  should  have  fear  and  sinking  at  the 

heart  ; 
But  in  a  little  moment  we  should  see. 
Rising  majestic  from  a  ruined  heap, 
The  stately   spirit   that   we   served   of 

yore." 

The  sement  turned  his  subtle  deadly 
eyes 

Upon  the  spirit,  and  hissed ;  and,  sick 
witli  shame, 

It  bowed  itself  toeether,  and  went  back 

With  hidden  face.  "This  counsel  is 
not  good," 

The  other  twain  made  answer ;  "  look, 
my  lord. 

Whereas  'tis  evil  in  thine  eyes,  in 
ours 

'Tis  evil  also  ;  speak,  for  we  perceive 

That  on  thy  tongue  the  words  of  coun- 
sel sit. 

Ready  to  fly  to  our  right  greedy  ears. 

That  long  for  them."  And  .Satan,  flat- 
tered thus 

(For  ever  may  the  serpent  kind  be 
charmed 

With  soft,  sweet  words,  and  music 
deftly  played). 

Replied,  "  Whereas  I  surely  rule  the 
world, 


Behooves   that   ye   prepare   for   me   a 

path, 
And    that     I,    putting    of    my    pains 

aside, 
Go  stir  rebellion  in  the  mighty  hearts 
O'  the  giants  ;  for  He  loveih  them,  and 

looks 
Full  oft  complacent  on  their  glorious 

strength. 
He   wiileth  that  they  yield,   that    He 

may  spare  ; 
But,  by  the  blackness  of  my  loathed 

den, 
I  say  they  shall  not,  no,  they  shall  not 

yield ; 
Go,  therefore,  take  to  you  some  harm- 
less guise. 
And  spread  a  rumor  that   I  come.     I, 

sick. 
Sorry,  and  aged,  hasten.     I  have  heard 
Whispers  that  out  of  heaven  dropped 

unaware. 
I  caught  them  up,  and  sith  they  bode 

men  harm, 
I  am  ready  for  to  comfort  them ;  yea, 

more, 
To  counsel,  and  I  will  that  they  drive 

forth 
The  women,  the  abhorrM  of  my  soul ; 
Let  not  a  woman  breathe  where  I  shall 

pass. 
Lest  the  curse  falleth,  and  she  bruise 

my  head. 
Friends,  if  it  be  their  mind  to  send  for 

me 
An  army,  and  triumphant  draw  me  on 
In  the  golden  car  you  wot  of,  and  with 

shouts, 
I  would  not  that  ye  hinder  them.     Ah, 

then 
Will    I    make   hard   their   hearts,  and 

grieve  Him  sore 
That  loves  them,  O,  by  much  too  well 

to  wet 
Their   stately   heads,    and   soil   those 

locks  of  strength 
Under  the  fateful  brine.      Then  after- 
ward. 
While    He   dnth    reason    vainly    with 

them,   1 
Will  offer  Him  a  pact:  'Great  King,  a 

pact. 
And  men  shall   worship   Thee,    I   say 

they  shall. 


iS8 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


For  I   will  bid  them  do  it,  yea,  and 

leave 
To  sacnlice  their  kind,  so  Thou  my 

name 
Wilt   sutfer    to    be    worshipped    after 

Thine.'  " 

"Yea,   my  lord   Satan,"   quoth   they, 

"do  this  thing, 
And  let  us  hear  thy  words,  for  they  are 

sweet.  ■' 

Then   he  made  answer,   "By  a  mes- 
senger 
Have  I  this  day  been  warned.     There 

is  a  deed 
I  may  not  tell  of,  lest  the  people  add 
Scorn  of  a  Coming  Greatness  to  their 

faults. 
Why  this?     Who  careth,  when  about 

to  slay, 
And  slay  indeed,  how  well  they  have 

deserved 
Deatli  whom  he  slayeth ?     Therefore 

yet  is  hid 
A  meaning  of  some  mercy  that  will  rob 
The  nelher  world.      Now  look  to  it,  — 

'Twere  vain, 
Albeit  this  deluge  He  would  send  in- 
deed, 
That    we    expect    the    harvest;    He 

would  vet  . 

Be  the   Master-reaper;  for  I  heard  it 

said, 
Them  that  be  young  and  know  Him 

not,  and  them 
That  are  bound  and  may  not  build,  yea, 

more,  their  wives, 
Whom,  suffering  not  to  hear  the  doom, 

they  keep 
Joyous  behind  the  curtains,  ever}'  one 
With  maidens  nourished  in  the  house, 

and  babes 
And  children  at  her  knees  —  (then  what 

remain!) 
He  claimeth  and  will  gather  for  His 

own. 
Now,  therefore,  it  were  good  by  guile 

to  work. 
Princes,  and  suffer  not  the  doom  to 

f.all. 
There  is  no  evil  like  to  love.     I  heard 
Him  whisper  it.     Have  I  put  on  this 

flesh 


To  ruin  His  two  children  beautiful. 
And  shall  my  deed  confound  me  in  the 

end, 
Through    awful    imitation?     Love  of 

God, 
I  cry  agauist  thee ;  thou  art  worst  of 

ail." 

BOOK   IV. 

Now  while  these  evil  ones  took  coun- 
sel strange. 

The  son  of  Lamech  journeyed  home ; 
and,  lo! 

A  company  came  down,  and  struck  the 
track 

As  he  did  enter  it.  There  rode  in 
front 

Two  horsemen,  young  and  noble,  and 
behind 

Were  following  slaves  with  tent  gear ; 
others  led 

Strong  horses,  others  bare  the  instru- 
ments 

O'  the  chase,  and  in  the  rear  dull 
camels  lagged. 

Sighing,  for  they  were  burdened,  and 
they  loved 

The  desert  sands  above  that  grassy 
vale. 

And  as  they  met,  those  horsemen  drew 
the  rein. 

And  fixed  on  him  their  grave  un- 
troubled  eyes; 

He  in  his  regal  grandeur  wa'.ked  alone. 

And  had  nor  steed  nor  follower,  and 
his  mien 

Was  grave  and  like  to  theirs.  He 
said  to  them, 

"Fair  sirs,  whose  are  ye?"  They 
made  answer  cold, 

"The  beautiful  woman,  sir,  our  mother 
dear,  , 

Niloiya,  bare  us  to  great  Lamech  s 
son." 

And  he,  replying,  "I  am  he.  They 
said, 

"  We  know  it,  sir.  We  have  remem- 
bered vou 

Through  many  seasons.  Pray  you  let 
us  not ; 

We  fain  would  greet  our  m.other.  ' 
And  they  made 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


159 


Obeisance    and    passed   on ;    then   all 

their  train, 
Which  while  they  spoke  had   halted, 

moved  apace. 
And,   while   the    silent    father    stood, 

went  by, 
He  gazing  after,  as  a  man  that  dreams  ; 
For  he  was  sick  with  their  cold,  quiet 

scorn. 
That  seemed  to  say,  "  Father,  we  own 

you  not, 
We  love  you  not,  for  you  have  left  us 

long,  — 
So  long,  we  care  not  that  you  come 

again." 


And  while  the  suUen  camels  moved,  he 

spake 
To  him  that  led  the  last,  "There  are 

but  two 
Of  these   my  sons ;    but  where   doth 

Japhet  ride? 
For  I  would  see  him."    And  the  leader 

said, 
"  Sir,  ye  shall  find  him,  if  ye  follow  up 
Along  the  track.     Afore  the  noonday 

meal 
The   young  men,    even    our   masters, 

bathed ;  (there  grows 
A  clump  of  cedars  by  the  bend  of  yon 
Clear  river)  —  there  did  Japhet,  after 

meat. 
Being  right  wearj',  lay  him  down  and 

sleep. 
There,  with  a  company  of  slaves  and 

some 
Few  camels,  ye  shall  find  him." 


And  the  man. 
The  father  of  these  three,  did  let  him 

pass. 
And  struggle   and  give   battle   to   his 

heart. 
Standing  as  motionless  as  pillar  set 
To  guide  a   wanderer   in    a    pathless 

waste  ; 
But  all  his  strength  went  from  him,  and 

he  strove 
Vainly   to    trample    out    and    trample 

down 
The  misery  of  his  love  unsatisfied,  — 
Unutterable  love  flung  lu  his  face. 


Then  he  broke  out  in  passionate  words, 

that  cried 
Against  his  lot :   "  I  have  lost  my  own, 

and  won 
None  other  ;  no,  not  one !     Alas,  my 

sons! 
That  I  have  looked  to  for  my  solacing, 
In  the  bitterness  to  come.     My  children 

dear !  " 
And  when  from  his  own  lips  he  heard 

those  words. 
With  passionate  stirring  of  the  heart, 

he  wept. 


And  none  came  near  to  comfort  him. 

His  face 
Was  on  the  ground  ;  but  having  wept, 

he  rose 
Full  hastily,  and  urged  his  way  to  find 
The  river  ;  and  in  hollow  of  his  hand 
Raised    up    the    water  to   his    brow: 

"  This  son. 
This   other   son    of    mine,"     he    said, 

"  shall  see 
No   tears   upon    my  face."     And    he 

looked  on, 
Behe'd  the  camels,  and  a  group  of  slaves 
Sitting  apart  from  some  one  fast  asleep, 
Where   they  had   spread  out  webs  of 

broidery  work 
Under  a  cedar-tree ,  and  he  came  on. 
And  when  they  made  obeisance  he  de- 
clared [son 
His  name,  and  said,  "  I  will  beside  my 
.Sit  till  he  wakeneth."      So  Japhet  lay 
A-dreaming,    and   his  father   drew   to 

him. 
He  said,  "  This  cannot  scorn  me  yet ;  " 

and  paused, 
Right  angry  with  himself,  because  the 

youth. 
Albeit  of  stately  growth,  so  languidly 
Lay    with   a  listless    smile    upon    his 

mouth, 
That  was  full  sweet  and  pure ;  and  as 

he  looked. 
He  half  forgot  his  trouble  in  his  pride. 
"And   is   this   mine?"   said  he,   "my 

son  !  mine  own ! 
(God,  thou  art  good!)     O.  if  this  turn 

away. 
That  pang   shall   be   past  bearing.     I 

must  think 


i6o 


A    STORY  OF  doom: 


That  all  the  sweetness  of  his  goodly 
face 

Is  copied  from  his  soul.  How  beauti- 
ful 

Are  children  to  their  fathers !  Son,  my 
heart 

Is  greatly  glad  because  of  thee :  my 
life 

Shall  lack  of  no  completeness  in  the 
days 

To  come      If  I  forget  the  joy  of  youth, 

In  thee  shall  I  be  comforted  ;  ay,  see 

My  youth,  a  dearer  than  my  own 
again." 

And  when  he  ceased,  the  youth,  with 

sleep  content. 
Murmured  a  little,  turned  himself,  and 

woke. 

He  woke,  and  opened  on  his  father's 

face 
The  darkness  of  his  eyes ;  but  not  a 

word 
The  Master-shipwright  said,  —  his  lips 

were  sealed ; 
He  was  not  ready,  for  he  feared  to  see 
This  mouth  curl  up  with  scorn.     And 

Japhet  spoke. 
Full   of  the   calm    that    cometh   after 

sleep : 
"  Sir,  I  have  dreamed  of  you.     I  pray 

you,  sir. 
What  is  your  name?"    and  even  with 

his  words 
His  countenance  changed.    The  son  of 

Lamech  said, 
'•  Why   art   thou   sad  ?     What  have   I 

done  to  thee?" 
And  Japhet  answered,  "  O,  methought 

I  fled 
In  the  wilderness  before  a  maddened 

beast. 
And  you   came   up   and   slew  it ;   and 

I  thought 
You   were  my  father ;  but  I  fear  me, 

sir. 
My  thoughts  were  vain."     With  that 

his  father  said, 
"Whate'er  of  blessing  Thou  reserv'st 

for  me, 
God!  if  Thou  wilt  not  give  to  both, 

give  here : 


Bless  him  with  both  Thy  hands ; "  and 

laid  his  own 
On  Japhet's  head. 

Then  Japhet  looked  on  him, 

Made  quiet  by  content,  and  answered 
low. 

With  faltering  laughter,  glad  and  rev- 
erent:  "Sir, 

You  are  my  father?"  "Ay,"  quoth 
he,   "  I  am ! 

Kiss  me,  my  son ;  and  let  me  hejir  my 
name. 

My  much  desired  name,  from  your 
dear  lips." 

Then  after,  rested,  they  betook  them 

home  : 
And  Japhet,  walking  by  the   Master, 

thought, 
"  I    did   not  wiU   to  love  this  sire  of 

mine ; 
But  now  I  fee'  as  if  I  had  always  known 
And  loved  him  well ;  truly,   1  see  not 

why. 
But  I  would  rather  serve  him  than  go 

free 
With  my  two  brethren."     And  he  said 

to  him, 
"Father!" — who  answered,    "I   am 

here,  my  son." 
And  Japhet  said,  "  I  pray  you,  sir,  at- 
tend 
To  this  my  answer:    let  me  go  with 

you. 
For,  now  I  think  on  it,  I  do  not  love 
The  chase,    nor   managing  the   steed, 

nor  yet 
The  arrows  and  the  bow;  but  rather 

you, 
For  all  you  do  and  say,  and  you  your- 
self, 
Are  goodly  and  delightsome  in  mine 

eyes. 
I   pray   you,    sir,    when  you  go  forth 

again. 
That  I  may  also  go."     And  he  replied, 
"  I    will    tell     thy    speech    unto     the 

Highest;  He 
Shall  answer  it.     But  I  would  speak  to 

thee 
Now  of  the  days  to  come.     Know  thou, 

most  dear 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


i6i 


To  this  thy  father,  that  the  drenched 

world, 
When  risen  clean  washed  from  water, 

shall  receive 
From  thee  her  lordliest  governors,  from 

thee 
Daughters  of  noblest  soul." 

So  Japhet  said, 
"  Sir,  I  am  young,  but  of  my  mother 

straight 
I  will  go  ask  a  wife,  that  this  may  be. 
I   pray   you,    therefore,   as    the    man- 
ner is 
Of  fathers,  give  me  land  that  I  may 

reap 
Corn  for  sustaining  of   my  wife,  and 

bruise 
The  fruit  of  the  vine  to  cheer  her." 

But  he  said, 
"  Dost  thou  forget  ?  or  dost  tliou  not 

believe, 
My  son  ? "     He  answered,  "  I  did  ne'er 

beheve, 
My  father,  ere  to-day  ;  but  now,  ma- 
th inks, 
Whatever  thou  believest  I  believe, 
For  thy  beloved  sake.     If  this  then  be 
As  thou  (I  hear)  hast  said,  and  earth 

doth  bear 
The  last  of  her  wheat  harvests,  and 

make  ripe 
The  latest  of  her  grapes ;  yet  hear  me, 

sir, 
None  of  the  daughters  shall  be  given  to 

me 
If  I   be   landless."     Then  his  father 

said, 
"  Lift  up  thine  eyes  toward  the  north, 

my  son  :  " 
And   so   he  did.     "Behold   thy   heri- 
tage!" 
Quoth  the  world's  prince  and  master, 

"  far  away 
Upon   the   side   o'    the   north,    where 

green  the  field 
Lies  every  season  through,  and  where 

the  dews 
Of   heaven   are  wholesome,  shall  thy 

children  reign  ; 
I  part  it  to  them,  for  the  earth  is  mine  ; 
The   Highest  gave  it  me:   I  make  it 

theirs. 
Moreover,  for  thy  marriage  gift,  behold 


The    cedars    where    thou     sleepedst! 

There  are  vines  ; 
And  up  the  rise  is  growing  wheat.     I 

give 
(For  all,  alas!  is  mine),  —  I  give  thee 

both 
For  dowry,  and  my  blessing." 

And  he  said, 
"  Sir,  you  are  good,  and  therefore  the 

Most  High 
Shall  bless  me  also.     Sir,   I  love  you 

well." 


And  when  two  days  were  over,  Japhet . 

said, 
"  Mother,  so  please  you,  get  a  wife  for 

me." 
The    mother  answered,    "  Dost    thou 

mock  me,  son? 
'T  is  not  the  manner  of  our  kin  to  wed 
So  young.     Thou  knowest  it ;  art  thou 

not  ashamed  ? 
Thou  carest  not  for  a  wife."     And  the 

youth  blushed. 
And   made   for    answer :    "  This,    my 

father,  saith 
The  doom  is  nigh  ;  now,  therefore,  find 

a  maid, 
Or  else  shall  I  be  wifeless  all  my  days. 
And  as  for  me,    I   care  not ;  but   the 

lands 
Are  parted,  and  the  goodliest  share  is 

mine 
And   lo !  my  brethren  are  betrothed ; 

their  maids 
Are  with  thee  in  the  house.     Then  why 

not  mine  ? 
Didst  thou  not  diligently  search   for 

these 
Among    the    noblest  bom  of  all  the 

earth. 
And  bring  them  up?     My  sisters,  dwell 

they  not 
With    women   that  bespake  them   for 

their  sons? 
Now,  therefore,  let  a  wife  be  found  for 

me, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  gentle  to  my  will 
As  thou  art  to  my  father's."     When 

she  heard. 


1 62 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Niloiya  sighed,  and  answered,  "  It  is 

weil." 
And  Japhet  went  out  from  her  presence. 

Then 
Quoth  the  great  Master:   "Wherefore 

sought  ye  not. 
Woman,  these  many  days,  nor  tired  at 

all. 
Till  ye  had  found,  a  maiden  for  my 

son? 
In  this  ye  have  done  ill."     Niloiya 

said : 
"  Let  not  my  lord  be  angry.     All  my 

soul 
Is  sad :  my  lord  hath  walked  afar  so 

long. 
That  so.ne  despise  thee  ;  yea,  our  ser- 
vants fail 
Lately  to  bring  tlieir  stint  of  corn  and 

wood. 
And,  sir,  thy  household  slaves  do  steal 

away 
To  thy  great  father,  and  our  lands  lie 

waste,  — 
None   till   them :    therefore   think  the 

women  scorn 
To  give  me  —  whatsoever  gems  I  send. 
And  goodly  raiment  (yea,  I  seek  afar. 
And  sue  with  all  desire  and  humbleness 
Through  every  master's  house,  but  no 

one  gives)  — 
A  daughter  for  my  son."     With  that 

she  ceased. 

Then  said  the   Master:  "Some  thou 

hast  with  thee, 
Brought  up  among  thy  children,  duti- 
ful 
And  fair ;  thy  father  gave  them  for  my 

slaves,  — 
Children   of    them  whom  he  brought 

captive  fortli 
From  their  own  heritage."     And  she 

replied. 
Right  scornfully  :  "  Shall  Japhet  wed 

a  slave?" 
Tlien    said   the    Master:    "He  shall 

wed :  look  thou 
To  that.     I  say   not  he   shall  wed  a 

slave  ; 
But,  by  the  might  of   One   that  made 

him  mine. 


I  will  not  quit  thee  for  my  doomed 
way 

Until  thou  wilt  betroth  him.  There- 
fore, haste. 

Beautiful  woman,  loved  of  rre  and 
mine. 

To  brine;  a  maiden,  and  to  say,  '  Be- 
hu.d 

A  wife  for  Japhet.'  "  Then  she  an- 
swered, "  Sir, 

It  shall  be  done." 

And  forth  Niloiya  sped. 
She  gathered  all  her  jewels, — all  she 

held 
Of  costly  or.  of  rich,  —  and  went  and 

spake 
With  some  few  slaves  that  yet  abode 

with  her, 
For  daily  they  were  fewer ;  and  went 

forth. 
With  fair  and  flattering  words,   among 

her  feres. 
And  fain  had  wrought  with  them :  and 

she  had  hope 
That  made   her  sick,  it  was  so  faint ; 

and  then 
She  had  fear,  and  after  she   had  cer- 
tainty, 
For  all  did    scorn  her.     "  Nay,"  they 

cried,  "  O  fool ! 
If  this  be  so,  and  on  a  watery  wor'd 
Ye  think  to  rock,  wliat  matters  if  a  wife 
Be  free  or  bond  ?    There  shall  be  none 

to  rule, 
If  she  have  freedom  :  if  she  have  it  not, 
None  shall  there  be  to  serve  " 

And  she  alit. 
The  time  being  done,  desponding  at 

her  door. 
And    went   behind    a     screen,   where 

should  have  wrought 
The   daughters   of  the   captives ;    but 

there  wrought 
One  only,  and  th.s  rose  from  off  the 

floor. 
Where  she  the  river  rush  full  deftly 

wove. 
And  made  obeisai.ce.     Then  Niloiya 

said, 
"Where  are  thy  fellows?"     And  the 

maid  replied, 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM. 


'63 


"  Let  not  Niloiya,  this  my  lady  loved, 
Be  angry ;  they  are  tied  since  yester- 
night." 
Then   said   Niloiya,     "Amarant,     my 

slave, 
When  have  I  called  thee  by  thy  naiTie 

before?" 
She   answered,   "  Lady,   never  ;  "  and 

she  took 
And  spread  her  broidered  robe  before 

her  face. 
Niloiya  spoke  thus:   "  I  am  come  to 

woe, 
And  thou  to  honor."     Saying  this,  she 

wept 
Passionate  tears ;  and  all  the  damsel's 

soul 
Was  full  of  yearning  wonder,  and  her 

robe 
Slipped  from  her  hand,  and  her  right 

innocent  face 
Was  seen  betwkt  her  locks  of  tawny 

hair 
That  dropped  about  her  knees,  and  her 

two  eyes, 
Blue  as  the  much-loved  flower  that  nms 

the  beck. 
Looked  sweetly  on  Niloiya;  but  she 

knew 
No  meaning  in  her  words ;    and  she 

drew  nigh, 
And  kneeled  and  said,  "  Will  this  my 

lady  speak? 
Her  damsel  is  desirous  of  her  words. 
Then  said  Niloiya,  "I,   thy   mistress, 

sought 
A  wife   for    Japhet,    and    no   wife   is 

found.' 
And  yet  again  she  wept  with  grief  of 

heart. 
Saying,    "Ah  me,  miserable!    I  must 

give 
A   wife, — the    Master  willeth    it, — a 

wife, 
Ah  me!  unto  the  high-born.     He  will 

scorn 
His  mother  and  reproach  me.     I  must 

give  — 
None  else  have   I  to  give  —  a  slave — 

even  thee" 
This   further  spake   Niloiya:   "I  was 

good,  — 
Had   nie   on   thee,   a  tender  sucking 
child, 


When   they   did    tear   thee   from   thy 

mother's  breast ; 
I  fed  thee,    gave  thee   shelter,  and   I 

taught 
Thy  hands  all  cunning  arts  that  women 

prize. 
But  out  on  me  !  my  good  is  turned  to 

ill. 
O  Japhet,   well  beloved !  "     And  she 

rose  up. 
And     did     restrain     herself,      saying, 

"  Dost  thou  heed  ? 
Behold,    this    thing   shall  be."      The 

damsel  sighed, 
"  Lady,    I   do."     Then  went   Niloiya 

forth. 

And  Amarant  murmured  in  her  deep 

amaze, 
"  Shall  Japhet's  little  children  kiss  my 

mouth  ? 
And  will  he  sometimes  take  them  from 

my  arms. 
And  almost  care  for  me  for  their  sweet 

sake  ? 
I  have  not  dared  to  think  I  loved  him, 

—  now 
I  know  it  well :  but  O,  the  bitterness 
For    him!"     And   ending    thus,    the 

damsel  rose. 
For  Japhet  entered.     And  she  bowed 

herself 
Meekly  and  made  obeisance,  but  her 

blood 
Ran  cold  about  her  heart,  for  all  his 

face 
Was  colored  with  his  passion. 

Japhet  spoke : 
He  said   "My  father's   slave;"   and 

she  repled. 
Low  drooping    her    fair    head,   "  My 

master's  son." 
And  after  that  a  silence  fell  on  them. 
With  trembling  at  her  heart,  and  rage 

at  his. 
And  Japhet,  mastered  of  his  passion, 

sat 
And  could  not  speak.     O,  cruel  seemed 

his  fate, — 
So  cruel  he   that  told  it,  so  unkind. 
His  brea.st  was  full  of  wounded  love 

and  wrath 


1 64 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Wrestling  together ;  and  his  eyes  flashed 

out 
Indignant  lights,  as  all  amazed  he  took 
The  insidt   lionie  that  she  had  offered 

him, 
Who  should  have  held  his  honor  dear. 

And,  lo, 
The  miserj'  choked  him,  and  he  cried 

in  pain, 
"Go,  get   thee   forth;"    but   she,    all 

white  and  still, 
Parted  her  lips  to  speak,  and  yet  spake 

not, 
Nor    moved.      And    Japhet    rose    up 

passionate. 
With  lifted  arm  as  one  about  to  strike ; 
But  she  cried  out  and  met  him,  and 

she  held 
With  desperate  might  his  hand,   and 

prayed  to  him, 
"  Strike  not,    or  else  shall  men   from 

henceforth  say, 
■  'Japhet  is  like  to  us.'  "     And  he  shook 

off 
The  damsel,  and  he  said,   "  I   thank 

thee,  slave ; 
For  never  have  I  stricken  yet  or  cnild 
Or  woman.     Not  for   thy  sake  am   I 

glad, 
Nay,  but  for  mine.     Get  hence.     Obey 

my  words." 
Then  Japhet  lifted  up  his  voice,  and 

wept. 

And  no  more  he   restrained   himself, 

but  cried. 
With  heavingsof  the  heart,  "  O  hateful 

day! 
O  day  that  shuts  the  door  upon  de- 
light! 
A  slave!  to  wed  a  slave!     O  loathed 

wife. 
Hated  of  Japhet's  soul."     And  after, 

long. 
With   face  between  his  hands,  he  sat, 

his  thoughts 
Sullen  and  sore  ;  then  scorned  himself, 

and  saying, 
"  I  will  not  take  her,  I  will  die  unwed, 
It  is  but  that ;  "  lift  up  his  eyes  and 

saw 
The  slave,  and  she  was  sitting  at  his 

feet 


And  he,  so  greatly  wondering  that  she 

dared 
The  disobedience,  looked  her  in  the  face 
Less  angry   than  afraid,  for  pale  she 

was 
As  lily  yet  unsmlled  on  by  the  sun  ; 
And  he,  his  passion  being  spent,  sighed 

out, 
"  Low  am  I  fallen  indeed.     Hast  thou 

no  fear, 
That  thou  dost  flout   me?"  but  she 

gave  to  him 
The    sighing   echo  of    his    sigh,   and 

mourned, 
"No." 

And  he  wondered,  and  he  looked 

again. 
For  in  her  heart  there  was  a  new-born 

pang. 
That  cried ;  but  she,  as  mothers  with 

their  young, 
Suffered,  yet  loved  it ;  and  there  shone 

a  strange 
Grave  sweetness  in  her  blue  unsullied 

eyes. 
And  Japhet,  leaning  from  the  settle, 

thought, 
"What  is  it?     I  will  caliber  by  her 

name, 
To  comfort  her,  for  also  she  is  naught 
To  blame  ;  and  since  I  will  not  her  to 

wife, 
She  falls  back  from  the  freedom  she 

had  hoped." 
Then  he   said,  "Amarant;"    and  the 

damsel  drew 
Her  eyes  down  slowly  from  the  shaded 

sky 
Of  even,  and  she  said,  "My  master's 

son, 
Japhet ;"  and  Japhet  said,  "  I  am  not 

wroth 
With  thee, but  wretched  for  my  mother's 

deetl, 
Because  she  shamed  me." 

And  the  maiden  said, 
"  Doth  not  thy  father  love  thee  well, 

sweet  sir?" 
"  Ay,"   quoth   he,    "  well."      She  an- 
swered, "  Let  the  heart 
Of  Japhet,    ihen,    be   meny.     Go   to 
him 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


i6s 


And  say,  '  The  damsel  whom  my  mother 

chose 
Sits  by  her  in  the  house ;  but  as  for 

nie, 
Sir,  ere  I  take  her,  let  me  go  with  you 
To  that  same  outland  country.     Also, 

sir, 
My  damsel  hath  not  worked  as  yet  the 

robe 
Of  her  betrothal ; '   now,  then,  sith  he 

loves, 
He  will  not  say  thee  nay.     Herein  for 

a  while 
Is  respite,  and  thy  mother  far  and  near 
Will  seek  again  :  it  may  be  she  will  find 
A  fair,  free  maiden." 

Japhet  said,  "O  maid, 
Sweet  are  thy  words;  but  what    if  I 

return, 
And  all  again  be  as  it  is  to-day?" 
Then  Amarant  answered,  "  Some  have 

died  in  youth  ; 
But  yet,  1  think  not,  sir,  that  I  shall 

die. 
Though  ye  shall  find  it  even  as  I  had 

died,  — 
Silent,   for  any  words    I    might   have 

said ; 
Empty,   for  any  space   I   might  have 

filled. 
Sir,  I  will  steal  away,  and  hide  afar ; 
But  if  a  wife  be  found,  then  will  1  bide 
And  serve."     He  answered,   "  O,  thy 

speech  is  good ; 
Now,  therefore  {since  my  mother  gave 

me  thee), 
I  will  reward  it ;  I  will  find  for  thee 
A  goodly  husband,  and  will  make  him 

free 
Thee  also." 

Then  she  started  from  his  feet, 
And,  red  with  shame  and  anger,  flashed 

on  him 
The  passion  of  her  eyes ;  and  put  her 

hands 
With  catching  of  the  breath  to  her  fair 

throat, 
And  stood  in  her  defiance  lost  to  fear. 
Like  some  fair  hind  in  desperate  danger 

turned 
And  brought  to  bay,  and  wild  in  her 

despair. 


But  shortly,  "  I  remember,"  quoth  she, 

■ow. 
With  raining  down  of  tears  and  broken 

sighs, 
"That   I  am  Japhet' s  slave;  beseech 

you,  sir, 
As  ye  were  ever  gentle,  ay,  and  sweet 
Of  language  to  me,  be  not  harder  now. 
Sir,  1  was  yours  to  take ;  1  knew  not, 

sir. 
That  also  ye  might  give  me.     Pray  you, 

sir. 
Be  pitiful,  —  be  merciful  to  me, 
A  slave."     He  said,  "  1  thought  to  do 

thee  good. 
For  good  hath  been    thy  counsel;" 

but  she  cried, 
"Good  master,  be  you  therefore  pitiful 
To  me,  a  slave."     And  Japhet  won- 
dered much 
At    her,  and    at   her    beauty,    for  he 

thought, 
"  None  of  the  daughters  are  so  fair  as 

this, 
Nor  stand  with  such  a  grace  majesti- 

cal ; 
She  in  her  locks  is  like  the  travelling 

sun. 
Setting,  all   clad   in   coifing   clouds   of 

gold. 
And  would  she  die  unmatched  ?  "     He 

said  to  her, 
"  What !  wilt  thou  sail  alone  in  yonder 

ship, 
And  dwell  alone  hereafter?"     "Ay," 

she  said, 
"  And  serve  my  mistress." 

"  It  is  well,"  quoth  he. 
And  held  his  hand   to   her,  as  is  the 

way 
Of  masters.     Then  she  kissed  it,  and 

she  said, 
"Thanks  for  benevolence,"  and  turned 

herself. 
Adding,  "  I  rest,  sir,  on  your  gracious 

words  ;" 
Then  stepped  into  the  twilight  and  was 

gone. 

And  Japhet,  having  found  his  father, 

said, 
"Sir,  let  me  also  journey  when  ye  go." 


i66 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Who   answered,    "  Hath    thy    mother 

done  her  part  ?" 
He  said,  "  Yea,  truly,  and  my  damsel 

sits 
Before  her  in  the  house  ;  and  also,  sir, 
She  said  to  me,  '  I  have  not  worked,  as 

yet. 
The  garment  of  betrothal.'  "     And  he 

said, 
'"Tis  not  the   manner   of  our  kin  to 

speak 
Concerning  matters  that  a  woman  rules  ; 
But  hath  thy  mother  brought  a  damsel 

home. 
And  let  her  see  thy  face,  then  all  is  one 
As    ye    were    wed."      He    answered, 

"  Even  so, 
It  matters  nothing  ;  therefore  hear  me, 

sir: 
The  damsel  being  mine,  I  am  content 
To  let  her  do  according  to  her  will  ; 
And  when  we  shall  return,  so  surely, 

sir. 
As   I  shall  find   her  by  my  mother's 

side. 
Then  will  1  take  her;"  and  he  left  to 

speak ; 
His  father  answering,  "  Son,  thy  words 

are  good." 


Night.     Now  a  tent  was  pitched,  and 

Japhct  sat 
In  the  door  and  watched,  for  on  a  litter 

lay 
The  father  of  his  love.     And  he  was 

sick 
To  death  ;  but  daily  he  would   rouse 

him  up. 
And  stare  upon  the  light,  and  ever  say, 
"On,  let  us  journey;"  but  it  came  to 

pass 
That  night,  across  their  path  a  river 

ran, 
And  they  who  served  the  father  and 

the  son 
Had  pitched  the  tents  beside  it,  and 

h.id  made 
A  fire,  to  scare  away  the  savasjery 
That  roamed  in  that  great  forest,  for 

their  way 
Had  led  among  the  trees  of  God. 


The  moon 
Shone  on  the  river,  like  a  silver  road 
To  lead  them  over;  but  when  Japhet 

looked, 
He  said,   "  We  shall  not  cross   it.     I 

shall  lay 
This   well-beloved    head    low  in    the 

leaves,  — 
Not  on  the  farther  side."     From  time 

to  time. 
The  water-snakes  would  stir  its  glassy 

flow 
With  curling  undulations,   and  would 

lay 
Their  heads  along  the  banks,  and,  sub- 
tle-eyed. 
Consider   those  long   spirting    flames, 

that  danced. 
When  sotne  red  log  would  break  and 

crumble  down, 
And  show  his  dark  despondent  eyes, 

that  watched. 
Wearily,  even  Japhet's.     But  he  cared 
Little  ;  and  in  the  dark,  that  was  not 

dark. 
But  dinmess  of  confused  incertitude, 
Would  move  a-near  all  silently,  and 

gaze 
And  breathe,  and  shape  itself,  a  manfed 

thing 
With  eyes ;  and  still  he  cared  not,  and 

the  form 
Would  falter,   then  recede,  and  melt 

again 
Into  the  farther  shade.     And  Japhet 

said  : 
"How  long?    The  moon  hath  grown 

again  in  heaven. 
After  her  caving  twice,  since  we   did 

leave 
The  threshold  of  our  home ;  and  now 

what  'vails 
That  far  on  tumbled  mountain  snow  we 

toiled, 
Hungr\',  and  weary,  all  the  day ;    by 

night 
Waked  with  a  dreadful  trembling  un- 
derneath, 
To  look,  while  every  cone  smoked,  and 

th2re  ran 
Red   brooks  adown,    that    licked    the 

f^  rjst  up, 
While  in  the  pale  white  ashes  wading 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM 


.67 


We  saw  no  stars  ?  —  what  'vails  if  after- 
ward, 

Astonished  with  great  silence,  we  did 
move 

Over  the  measureless,  unknown  desert 
mead ; 

While  all  the  day,  in  rents  and  crevices, 

Would  lie   the  lizard  and  the  serpent 
kind. 

Drowsy ;    and  in  the  night  take  fear- 
some shapes, 

And  ofttimes  woman-faced  and  wom- 
an-haired 

Would   trail   their  snaky   length,    and 
curse  and  mourn ; 

Or  there  would  wander  up,  when  we 
were  tired. 

Dark  troops  of  evil   ones,   with  eyes 
morose, 

Withstanding   us,    and    staring  ;  —  O, 
what  'vails 

That  in  the  dread  deep  forest  we  have 
fought 

With     following    packs     of    wolves? 
These  men  of  might, 

Even   the  giants,   shall   not  hear  the 
doom 

My  father  came  to  tell  them  of.     Ah 
me; 

If  God  indeed  had  sent  him,  would  he 
lie 

(For  he  is  stricken  with  a  sore  disease) 

Helpless  outside  their  city?" 

Then  he  rose, 
And  put  aside  the  curtains  of  the  tent, 
To  look  upon  his  father's  face  ;  and  lo ! 
The  tent  being  dark,  he  thought  that 

somewhat  sat 
Beside  the  litter  ;  and  he  set  his  eyes 
To   see   it,    and   saw    not ;    but  only 

marked 
Where,  fallen  away  from  manhood  and 

from  power, 
His  father  lay.     Then  he  came  forth 

again, 
Trembhng,   and   crouched   beside   the 

dull  red  fire, 
And  murmured,  "  Now  it  is  the  second 

time : 
An  old  man,  as  I  think  (but  scarcely 

saw). 
Dreadful  of  might.     Its  hair  was  white 

as  wool  : 


I  dared  not  look ;  perhaps  I  saw  not 

aught. 
But  only  knew  that  it  was  there:  the 

same 
Which  walked  beside  us  once  when  he 

did  pray." 
And  Japhet  hid  his  face  between  his 

hands 
For  fear,  and  grief  of  heart,  and  weari- 
ness 
Of  watching ;   and  he  slumbered  not, 

but  mourned 
To    himself,   a    little    moment,    as    it 

seemed. 
For  sake  of  his  loved  father ;  then  he 

lift 
His  eyes,  and  day  had  dawned.    Right 

suddenly 
The  moon  withheld  her  silver,  and  she 

hung 
Frail   as  a  cloud.     The   ruddy   flame 

that  played 
By  night  on  dim,  dusk  trees,  and  on  the 

flood. 
Crept  red  amongst  the  logs,  and  all  the 

world 
And  all  the  water  blushed  and  bloomed. 

The  stars 
Were  gone,  and  golden  shafts  came  up, 

and  touched 
The   feathered   heads    of    palms,    and 

green  was  bom 
Under  the  rosy  cloud,  and  purples  flew 
Like  veils  across  the  mountains ;  and 

he  saw. 
Winding  athwart  them,  bathed  in  bliss- 
ful peace. 
And  the  sacredness  of  mom,  the  battle- 
ments 
And  outposts  of  the  giants ;  and  there 

ran 
On  the  other  side  the  river,  as  it  were. 
White  mounds  of  marble,  tabernacles 

fair. 
And  towers  below  a  line  of  inland  cliff: 
These  were  their  fastnesses,  and  here 

their  homes. 

In    valleys    and    the    forest,    all    that 

night. 
There  had  been  woe ;  in  every  hollow 

place, 
And  under  walls,  like  drifted  flowers, 

or  snow, 


i68 


A   STOJiV  OF  DOOM. 


Women  lay  mourning  ;  for  the  serpent 

lodged 
That  night  within  the  gates,  and  had 

decreed, 
"  I  will  (or  ever  I  come)  that  ye  drive 

out 
The  women,  the  abhorred  of  my  soul." 

Therefore,   more    beauteous    than   all 

climbing  bloom, 
Purple  and  scarlet,  cumbering  of   the 

boughs, 
Or  flights   of  azure   doves  that  lit  to 

drink 
The  water  of  the  river  ;  or,  new  born, 
The  quivering  butterflies  in  companies. 
That   slowly   crept  adovvn    the    sandy 

marge. 
Like  living  crocus  beds,  and  also  drank. 
And  rose  an  orange  cloud ;  their  hol- 
lowed hands 
They  dipped  between  the  lilies,  or  with 

robes 
Full  of  ripe  fruitage,  sat  and  peeled 

and  ate. 
Weeping ;    or  comforting    their    little 

ones, 
And  lulling  them  with  sorrowful  long 

hymns 
Among  the  palms. 

So  went  the  earlier  morn. 
Then  came  a  messenger,  while  Japhet 

sat 
Mournfully,  and  he  said,  "The  men  of 

might 
Are   vvilling;    let   thy  master,    youth, 

appear." 
And  Ja|>het  said,  "  So  be  it;"  and  he 

thougU;, 
'*Now  will   1   trust  in  God;"  and  he 

went  in 
And  stood   before  his  father,  and  he 

said, 
"  My  father ; "    but  the    Master   an- 
swered not, 
But  gazed  ujjon  the  curtains  of  his  tent. 
Nor  knew   that    one   had  called  him. 

He  was  clad 
As  ready  for  the  journey,  and  his  feet 
Were  sandalled,  and  his  staff  was  at  liis 

side ; 
And  Japhet  took  the  gown  of  sacrifice 


And  spread  it  on  him,  and  he  laid  his 

crown 
Upon  his  knees,  and  he   went   forth, 

and  lift 
His  hand  to  heaven,  and  cried,  "  My 

father's  God! " 
But  neither  whisper  came  nor  echo  fell 
When   he   did   listen.      Therefore    he 

went  on : 
"  Behold,  I  have  a  thing  to  say  to  thee. 
My  father   charged  thy  servant,   '  Let 

not  ruth 
Prevail  with  thee  to  turn  and  bear  me 

hence, 
For   God  appointed   me   my   task,    to 

preach 
Before   the   mighty.'     I  must  do  my 

part 
(O,   let  it  not  displease  thee),  for  he 

said 
But  yesternight,  '  When  they  shall  send 

for  me. 
Take  me  before  them.'     And  I  sware 

to  him. 
I  pray   thee,  therefore,  count  his  life 

and  mine 
Precious ;  for  I  that  sware,  I  will  per- 
form. •' 

Then  cried  he  to  his  people,  "  Let  us 

hence : 
Take  up   the  litter."      And  they  set 

their  feet 
Toward  the  raft  whereby  men  crossed 

that  flood. 

And    while    they    journeyed,    !o,    the 

giants  sat 
Within  the  fairest  hall  where  all  were 

fair, 
Each  on  his  carven  throne,  o'er-cano- 

pied 
With  \\ork  of  women.     And  the  dragon 

lay 
In  a  place  of  honor;  and  with  subtlety 
ike  counselled  them,  for  they  did  speak 

by  turns ; 
And  they,  being  proud,  might  nothing 

master  them, 
But  guile  alone  :  and  he  did  fawn  on 

them ; 
And  when  the  younger  taunted  him, 

subraiss 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


169 


He   testified    great    humbleness,    and 

cried, 
"  A  cruel  God,  forsooth  !  but  nay,  O 

nay, 
I  will  not  think  it  of  Him,  that   He 

meant 
To  threaten  these.     O,  when  I  look  on 

them. 
How  doth  ray  soul  admire." 

And  one  stood  forth, 
The  youngest ;  of  his  brethren  named 

"the  Rock." 
"  Speak  out,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  tooth- 
less, slavering  thing, 
What  is  it  ?  thinkest  thou  that  such  as 

we 
Should  be  afraid  ?    What  is  this  goodly 

doom  ? " 
And  Satan  laughed  upon  him      "  Lo," 

said  he, 
"  Thou  art  not  fully  grown,  and  every 

one 
I  look  on  standeth  higher  by  the  heTl, 
Yea,  and  the  shoulders,  than  do  oiher 

men  ; 
Forsooth,     thy    servant    thought    not 

thou  wouldst  fear, 
Thou  and  thy  fellows."      Then  with 

one  accord, 
"  Speak,"  cried  they  ;  and  with  mild, 

persuasive  eyes, 
And  flattering  tongue,  he  spoke. 

"  Ye  mighty  ones. 
It  hath  been  known  to  you  these  many 

days 
How  that  for  piety  I  am  much  famed. 
I  am  exceeding  pious:  if  I  lie, 
As  hath  been  whispered,  it  is  but  for 

sake 
Of  God,  and  that  ye  should  not  think 

Him  hard. 
For  I  am  all  for  God.     Now  some  have 

thought 
That  He  hath  also  (and  it  may  be  so 
Or   yet   may   not   be   so)   on  me  been 

hard ; 
Be  not  ye  therefore  wroth,  for  my  poor 

sake  ; 
I   am   contented  to  have  earned  your 

weal, 
Though  I  must  therefore  suffer. 


"  Now  to-day 
One  Cometh,  yea,  an  harmless  man,  a 

fool. 
Who  boasts  he  hath  a  message  from 

our  God, 
And  lest  that  you,  for  bravery  of  heart 
And  stoutness,  being  angered  with  his 

prate. 
Should  lift  a  hand,  and  kill  hnn,  I  am 

here." 

Then  spoke  the  Leader,  "  How  now, 

snake  ?     Thy  words 
Ring  false.    Why  everliest  thou,  snake, 

to  us? 
Thou  coviard !  none  of  us  will  see  thee 

harmed. 
I  say  thou  liest.     The  land  is  strewed 

with  slain ; 
Myself  have   hewn   down   companies, 

and  blood 
Makes  fertile    all    the    field.       Thou 

knowest  it  well  ; 
And  hast  ihou,  driveller,  panting  sore 

for  ."ige, 
Come  witli  a  force  to  bid  us  spare  one 

fool  ?  " 

And  Satan  answered,  "Nay  you!  be 

not  wroth ; 
Yet  true  it  is,  and  yet  not  all  the  truth. 
Your  servant  would  have  told  the  rest, 

if  now 
(For  fulness  of  your  life  being  fretted 

sore 
At  mine  infirmities,  which  God  in  vain 
I  supplicate  to  heal)  ye  had  not  caused 
My   speech    to   stop."     And   he   they 

called  "  the  Oak" 
Made  answer,  '"Tis  a  good  snake  ;  let 

him  be. 
Why    would    ye  fright   the   poor    old 

craven  beast  ? 
Look  how  his  lolling  tongue  doth  foam 

for  fear. 
Ye  should  have  mercy,  brethren,   on 

the  weak. 
Speak,  dragon,  thou  hast  leave;  make 

stout  thy  heart. 
What !  hast  thou  lied  to  this  great  com- 
pany? 
It  was,  we  know  it  was,  for  humbleness ; 
Thou  wert  not  willing  to  offend  with 

truth." 


I70 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM. 


"  Yei,  majesties,"  quoth  Satan,  "  thus 
it  was," 

And  lifted  up  appealing  eyes,  and 
groaned ; 

"  O,  can  it  be,  compassionate  as  brave. 

And  housed  in  cunning  works  them- 
selves have  reared, 

And  served  in  gold,  and  warmed  with 
minivere, 

And  ruling  nobly,  that  He,  not  con- 
tent 

Unless  alone  He  reigneth,  looks  to 
bend 

Or  break  them  in,  like  slaves  to  cry  to 
Him, 

'  What  is  Thy  will  with  us,  O  Master 
dear  ? ' 

Or  else  to  eat  of  death  ? 

"  For  my  part,  lords, 
I  cannot  think  it :  for  my  piety 
And  reason,  which  I  also  share  with 

you, 
Are  my  best  lights,  and  ever  counsel 

me, 
'  Believe  not  aught  against  thy  God  ; 

believe, 
Since  thou  canst  never  reach  to  do  Him 

wrong. 
That  He  will  never  stoop  to  do  thee 

wrong. 
Is  He  not  just  and  equal,   yea,    and 

kind?' 
Therefore,  O  majesties,  it  is  my  mind, 
Concerning    him    ye   wot   of,  thus   to 

think 
The  message  is  not  like  what  I  have 

learned. 
By  reason  and  experience,  of  the  God. 
Therefore  no  message  'tis.      The  man 

is  mad." 
Thereat  the  Leader  laughed  for  scorn. 

"  Hold,  snake ; 
If  God  be  just,  there  shall  be  reckon- 
ing days. 
We  rather  would   He  were  a  partial 

God, 
And,  being  strong.  He  sided  with  the 

strong. 
Turn   now  thy  reason    to    the    other 

side. 
And  speak  for  that ;  for  as  to  justice, 

snake, 
We  would  have  none  of  it." 


And  Satan  fawned : 
"  My  lord  is  pleased  to  mock  at  my 

poor  wit ; 
Yet  in  my  pious  fashion  I  must  talk  : 
For  say  that  God  was  wroth  with  man, 

and  came 
And  slew  him,   that  should  make  an 

empty  world. 
But  not  a  better  nation." 

This  replied, 
"Truth,  dragon,  yet  He  is  not  bound 

to  mean 
A  better  nation  ;  maybe.  He  designs. 
If  none  will  turn  again,  a  punishment 
Upon  an  evil  one. 

And  Satan  cried, 
"  Alas !  my  heart  being  full  of  love  for 

men, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think  of  God  as  like 
To  me ;  and  yet   my   piety  concludes, 
Since  He  will  have  your  fear,  that  love 

alone 
Sufficeih  not,  and  I  admire,  and  say, 
'  Give  me,   O  friends,  your  love,  and 

give  to  God 
Your  fear '  "     But  they  cried  out  in 

wrath  and  rage, 
"  We  are  not  strong  that  any  we  will 

fear, 
Nor  specially  a  foe  that  means  us  ill." 


And  while  he  spoke  there  was  a  noise 

without  ; 
The  curtains  of  the  door  were  flung 

aside. 
And  some  with  heavy  feet  bare  in,  and 

set 
A  litter  on  the  floor. 

The  Master  lay 
Upon  it,  but  his  eyes  were  dimmed  and 

set ; 
And  Japhet,  in  despairing  weariness. 
Leaned   it   beside.       He   marked   the 

mighty  ones. 
Silent  for  pride   of  heart,  and  in  his 

place 
The  jewelled  dragon  ;  and  the  dragon 

laughed, 
And  subtly  peered  at  him,  till  Japhet 

shook 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


171 


With  rage  and  fear.     The  snaky  won- 
der cried, 
Hissing,  "Thou  brown-haired  youth, 

come  up  to  me  ; 
I  fain  would  have  thee  for  my  shnne 

afar. 
To  serve  among  an  host  as  beautitul 
As  thou :  draw  near."     It  hissed,  and 

Japhet  fek 
Horrible   drawings,    and   cried  out   in 

fear, 
*'  Father!  O  help,  the  serpent  draweth 

me !  "  . 

And  struggled  and  grew  faint,  as  in  the 

toils 
A  netted  bird.     But    still   his  father 

lay 
Unconscious,   and  the  mighty  did   not 

speak. 
But  half  in  fear  and  half  for  wonder- 
ment 
Beheld.      And  yet  again   the  dragon 

laughed. 
And  leered  at  him  and  hissed  ;    and 

Japhet  strove 
Vainly    to    take    away    his    spell-set 

eyes, 
And   moved  to  go  to  him,  till  pierc- 
ingly 
Crying  out,  "  God !  forbid  it,  God  in 

heaven !  " 
The  dragon  lowered  his  head,  and  shut 

his  eyes 
As  feigning  sleep;  and,  suddenly  re- 
leased, 
He  fell  back  staggering ;  and  at  noise 

of  it, 
And  clash  of  Japhet's  weapons  on  the 

floor, 
And   Japhet's   voice   crj'ing    out,     "I 

loathe  thee,  snake! 
I  hate  thee!    O,  I  hate  thee!"    came 

again 
The  senses  of  the  shipwright ;  and  he, 
moved, 
—And  looking,   as  one 'mazed,  distress- 
fully 
Upon  the  mighty,   said,   "One  called 

on  God : 
Where  is  my  God?     If  God  have  need 

of  me, 
Let  Him  come  down   and  touch  my 

lips  with  strength, 
Or  dying  I  shall  die." 


It  came  to  pass, 
While  he  was  speaking,  that  the  cur- 
tains swayed ; 
A  rushing  wind  did  move  throughout 

the  place. 
And  all  the  pillars  shook,  and  on  the 

head 
Of  Noah  the  hair  was  lifted,  and  there 

played 
A  somewhat  as  it  were  a  light,  upon 
His  breast;  then  fell  a  darkness,  and 

men  heard 
A  whisper  as  of  one  that  spake.     With 

that. 
The  daunted  mighty  ones  kept  silent 

watch 
Until  the  wind  had  ceased  and  dark- 
ness fled. 
When  it  grew  light,  there  curled  a  cloud 

of  smoke 
From  many  censers  where  the  dragon 

lay- 
It  hid  him.     He  had  called  his  minis- 

trauts. 
And  bid  them  veil  him  thus,  that  none 

might  look ; 
Also  the  folk  who  came  with  Noah  had 

fled. 

But  Noah  was  seen,  for  he  stood  up 

erect, 
And  leaned  on  Japhet's  hand.     Then, 

after  pause, 
The   Leader   said,    "My  brethren,    it 

were  well 
(For  naught  we  fear)  to  let  this  sorcerer 

speak." 
And  they  did  reach   toward  the  man 

their  staves. 
And    cry  with    loud    accord,        Hail, 

sorcerer,  hail!  " 

And  he  made  answer,  "  Hail !   I  am  a 

man 
That  is  a  shipwright.     I  was  bom  afar 
To  Lamech,  him  that  reigns  a  king,  to 

wit. 
Over  the  land  of  Jalal.     Majesties, 
I   bring   a   message,  —  lay    you    it   to 

heart ; 
For  there  is  wrath  in  heaven ;  my  God 

is  wroth.  . 

'  Prepare  your  houses,  or  I  come,'  saith 

He, 


172 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


'  A  Judge.'     Now,  therefore,  say  not  in 

your  hearts, 
'What   have   we   done?'      Your   dogs 

may  answer  that, 
To  make  whom  fiercer  for  the  chase  ye 

feed 
With  captives  whom  ye  slew  not  in  the 

war. 
But  saved  ahve,  and  living  throw  to 

them 
Daily.     Your  wives  may  answer  that, 

whose  babes 
Their  firstborn  ye  do  take  and  offer  up 
To  this  abhorred  snake,  while  yet  the 

milk 
Is  in   their  innocent    mouths, — your 

maiden  babes 
Tender.     Your  slaves  may  answer  that, 

—  the  gangs 
Whose   eyes   ye  did  put   out  to  make 

them  work 
By  night  unwitting  (yea,  by  multitudes 
They  work  upon  the  wheel  in  chains). 

Your  friends 
May    answer    that,  —(their    bleached 

bones  cry  out),  — 
For  ye  did,  wickedly,  to  eat  their  lands, 
Turn   on   their   valleys,   in  a  time  of 

peace, 
The  nvers,  and  they,  choking  in  the 

night. 
Died  unavenged.      But  rather  (for  I 

leave 
To  tell  of  more,  the  time  would  be  so 

long 
To  do  it,  and  your  time,  O  mighty  ones. 
Is  short),  —  but  rather   say,  '  We  sin- 
ners know 
Why  the  Judge  standeth  at  the  door,' 

and  turn 
While  yet  there  may  be  respite,  and 

repent. 

"  '  Or  else,'  saith  He  that  formed  you, 

'  I  swear. 
By  all  the  silence  of  the  time  to  come. 
By  the   solemnities    of   death,  —  yea, 

more. 
By  Mine  own  power  and  love  which  ye 

have  scorned,  — 
That  I  will  come.     I  will  command  the 

clouds, 
And  raining  they  shall  rain  ;  yea,  I  will 

stir 


With  all  my  storms  the  ocean  for  youi 

sake. 
And  break  for  you  the  boundary  of  the 

deep. 

"  '  Then  shall  the  mighty  mourn. 

"  '  Should  I  forbear, 

That  have  been  patient  ?  I  will  not 
forbear ! 

For  yet,'  saith  He,  '  the  weak  cry  out ; 
for  yet 

The  little  ones  do  languish  ;  and  the 
slave 

Lifts  up  to  l\Ie  his  chain.  I,  there- 
fore, I 

Will  hear  them.  I  by  death  will  scat- 
ter you ; 

Yea,  and  by  death  will  draw  them  to 
My  breast. 

And  gather  them  to  peace. 

"  '  Bnt  yet,'  saith  He, 
'  Repent,   and  turn  you.      Wherefore 
will  ye  die." 

"Turn  then,   O   turn,   while   yet  the 

enemy 
Untamed  of  man  fatefully  moans  afar ; 
For   if  ye  will  not  turn,   the  doom  is 

near. 
Then   shall    the   crested    wave    make 

sport,  and  beat 
You  mighty  at  your  doors.     Will  ye  be 

wroth  ? 
Will   ye   forbid   it?     Monsters  of  the 

deep 
Shall  suckle  in  your  palaces  their  young, 
And  swim  atween  your  hangings,  all  of 

them 
Costly  with  broidered  work,  and  rare 

with  gold 
And  white  and  scarlet  (there  did  ye  op- 
press, — 
There  did  ye  make  you  vUe);  but  ye 

shall  lie 
Meekly,  and  storm  and  wind  shall  rage 

above. 
And  urge  the  weltering  wave. 

"  '  Yet,'  saith  thy  God, 
'  Son,'  ay,  to  each  of  you  He  saith,  '  O 
son. 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


173 


Made  in    My    image,    beautiful    and 

strong, 
Why  wilt  thou  die  ?    Thy  Father  loves 

thee  well. 
Repent  and  turn  thee  from  thine  evil 

ways, 
O  son !  and  no  more  dare  the  wrath  of 

love. 
Live  for  thy  Father's  sake  that  formed 

thee. 
Why  wilt  thou  die?'    Here  will  I  make 

an  end." 

Now  ever  on  his  dais  the  dragon  lay, 
Feigning  to  sleep  ;  and  all  the  mighty 

ones 
Were  wroth,  and  chided,  some  against 

the  woe. 
And  some  at  whom  the  sorcerer  they 

liad  named,  — 
Some  at  their  fellows,  for  the  younger 

sort  — 
As  men  the  less  acquaint  with  deeds  of 

b'.ood. 
And  given  to  learning  and  the  arts  of 

peace 
(Their  fathers  having  crushed  rebellion 

out 
Before  their  time)  —  lent  favorable  ears. 
They  said,  "  A  man,  or  false  or  fanatic. 
May  claim  good  audience  if  he  fill  our 

ears 
With  w  hat  is  strange :  and  we  would 

hear  again." 

The  Leader  said,   "  An  audience  hath 

been  given. 
The  man  bath  spoken,  and  his  words 

are  naught  ; 
A    feeble    threatener,   with    a   foolish 

threat. 
And  it  is  not  our  manner  that  we  sit 
Beyond    the    noonday ; "     then    they 

grand'.y  rose, 
'-.^A  stalwart  crowd,  and  with  their  Lead- 
er moved 
To  the  tones  of  harping,  and  the  beat 

of  shawms. 
And   the   noise   of   pipes,   away.     But 

some  were  left 
About  the  Master ;   and  the  feigning 

snake 
Couched  on  his  dais. 


Then  one  to  Japhet  said,  — 

One     called     "the     Cedar    Tree,"  — 
"  Dost  thou,  too,  think 

To  reign  upon  our  lands  when  we  lie 
drowned?" 

And  Japhet  said,  "  I  think  not,  nor  de- 
sire. 

Nor  in  my  heart  consent,  but  that  ye 
swear  [cried. 

Allegiance  to  the  God,  and  live."     He 

To    one    surnamed     "  the    Pine,"  — 
"  Brother,  behooves 

That  deep  we  cut  our  names  in  yonder 
crag, 

Else  when  this  youth  returns,  his  sons 
may  ask 

Our  names,  and  he  may  answer,  '  Mat- 
ters not, 

For  my  part  I  forget  them.'  " 

Japhet  said, 
"They  might  do  worse  than  that,  they 

might  deny 
That  sucli   as  you  have  ever  been." 

With  that 
They  answered,   "  No,  thou  dost  not 

think  it,  no!  " 
And  Japliet,  being  chafed,  replied  in 

heat, 
"  And  wherefore  ?  if  ye  say  of  what  is 

sworn,  [hard 

'  He  will  not  do  it,'  shall  it  be  more 
For  future  men,  if  any  talk  on  it, 
To  say,   'He  did  not  do  it'?"    They 

replied. 
With  laughter,  "  Lo  you!  he  is  stout 

with  us. 
And  yet  he  cowered  before  the  poor  old 

snake. 
Sirrah,   when  you  are  saved,  we  pray 

you  now 
To    bear    our    might   in   mind,  —  do, 

sirrah,  do ; 
And   likewise   tell   vour  sons,   ' "  The 

Cedar  Tree  ' 
Was  a  good  giant,  for  he  struck  me 

not. 
Though  he  was  young  and  full  of  sport, 

and  though 
I  taunted  him.'  " 

With  that  they  also  passed. 
But  there  remained  who  with  the  ship- 
wright spoke  ■• 


'74 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


"  How    wilt     thou    certify   to    us   thy 

truth?" 
And  he  related  to  them  all  his  ways 
From  the  beguming :  of  the  Voice  that 

called ; 
Moreover,  how  the  ship  of  doom  was 

built. 

And   one   made   answer,    "  Shall    the 

mighty  God 
Talk  with  a  man  of  wooden  beams  and 

bars? 
No,  thou  mad  preacher,   no.     If  He, 

Eteme, 
Be  ordering  of  His  far  infinitudes. 
And  darkness  cloud  a  world,  it  is  but 

chance, 
As   if  the   shadow   of   His  hand   had 

fallen 
On  one  that   He  forgot,  and  troubled 


Then  said  the    Master,  "Yet, —who 
toid  thee  so  ?  " 

And  from  his  dais  the  feigning  serpent 

hissed: 
"Preacher,   the   light    within,    it  was 

that  shined, 
And  told  him  so.     The  pious  will  have 

dread 
Him  to  declare  such  as  ye  rashly  told. 
The  course  of  God  is  one.     It  likes  not 

us 
To   think  of  Him   as  being  acquaint 

with  change : 
It    were    beneath    Him.        Nay,    the 

finished  earth 
Is  left   to   her  great   masters.      They 

must  rule  ; 
They  do ;  and  I  have  set  myself  be- 
tween, — 
A  visible  thing  for  worship,  sith  His 

face 
(For  He  is  hard)  He  showeth  not  to 

men. 
Yea,  I  have  set  myself  'twixt  God  and 

man, 
To  be  interpreter,  and  teach  mankind 
A  pious  lesson  by  my  piety. 
He  loveth  not,  nor  hateth,  nor  desires, — 
It  were  beneath  Him." 


And  the  Master  said, 
"  Thou  liest.     Thou  wouldst  lie  away 

the  world. 
If  He  whom  thou  hast  dared  to  speak 

against 
Would  suffer  it."     "I   may  not  chide 

with  thee,"' 
It  answered,  ''now,  but  if  there  come 

such  time 
As  thou   hast  prophesied,   as   I   now 

reign 
In  all  men's  sight,  shall  my  dominion 

then 
Reach   to  be  mighty  in  their    souls. 

Thou  too 
Shalt    feel    it,    prophet."        And    he 

lowered  his  head. 


Then  quoth  the  Leader  of  the  young 

men :   "  Sir, 
We  scorn  you  not ;  speak  further ;  yet 

our  thought 
First  answer.     Not  but  by  a  miracle 
Can  this  thing  be.     The  fashion  of  the 

world 
We  heretofore  have  never  known  to 

change  ; 
And  will  God  change  it  now?" 


He  then  replied : 
"  WTiat  is  thy  thought?    There  is  no 

MIRACLE? 

There  is  a  great  one,  which  thou  hast 

not  read. 
And  never  shall  escape.     Thyself,  O 

man, 
Thou  art  the  miracle.       Lo,   if  thou 

sayest, 
'  I   am    one,    and    fashioned  like   the 

gracious  world. 
Red  clay  is  all  my  make,   myself,  my 

whole, 
And  not  my  habitation,'  then  thy  sleep 
Shall  give  thee  wings  to  play  among  the 

rays 
O'  the  morning.     If  thy  thought  be,  '  I 

am  one,  — 
A  spirit  among  spirits,  —  and  the  world 
A  dream  my  spirit  dreameth   of,  my 

dream 
Being  ali,'  the  dominating  mountains 

strong 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM. 


175 


Shall  not  for  that  forbear  to  take  thy 

breath, 
And  rage  with  all  their  winds,  and  beat 

thee  back, 
And  beat  thee  down  when  thou  wouldst 

set  thy  feet 
Upon   their   awful   crests-      Ay,    thou 

thyself, 
Being  in  the  world  and  of  the  world, 

thyself. 
Hast  breathed   in   breath    from    Him 

that  made  the  world- 
Thou  dost  inherit,  as  thy  Maker's  son, 
That  which  He  is,  and  that  which  He 

hath  made  : 
Thou  art  thy  Father's  copy  of  Him- 
self, — 
Thou  art  thy  Father's  miracle. 

"Behold, 
He  buildeth  up  the  stars  in  companies  ; 
He  made  for  them  a  law.     To  man  He 

said, 
'  Freely  I  give  thee  freedom.'     What 

remains? 
O,   it  remains,   if  thou,  the  image  of 

God, 
Wilt  reason  well,  that  thou  shalt  know 

His  ways ; 
But  first  thou  must  be  loyal,  — love,  O 

man, 
Thy      Faiher, — hearken    when     He 

pleads  with  thee. 
For  there  is  something  left    of    Him 

e'en  now,  — 
A  witness  for  thy  Father  in  thy  soul. 
Albeit  thy  better  state  thou  hast  fore- 
gone. 

"  Now,  then,  be  still,  and  think  not  in 

thy  soul, 
'  The  rivers  in  their  course  forever  run, 
And  turn  not  from  it.     He  is  like  to 

them 
Who  made  them.'     Think  the  rather, 

'  With  my  toot 
I    have   turned   the   rivers   from  their 

ancient  way 
To   water  grasses  that    were    fading. 

What! 
Is  God  my  Father  as  the  river  \vave. 
That  yet  desceiideth,  —  like  the  lesser 

thing 


He  made,  and  not  like  me,  a  living  son. 
That  changed  the  watercourse  to  suit 
his  will.'' ' 

"  Man  is  the  miracle  in  nature-     God 
Is  the   One    Miracle  to  man.     Be- 
hold, 
'There  is  a  God,'  thou  sayest.     Thou 

sayest  well : 
In  that  thou  sayest  all.     To  Be  is  more 
Of    wonderful    than,    being,    to    have 

wrought. 
Or  reigned,  or  rested. 

"  Hold  then  there,  content ; 
Learn   that  to  love  is  the  one  way  to 

know 
Or  God  or  man  :  it  is  not  love  received 
That  niaketh  man  to  know  the  inner 

life 
Of  them  that  love  him  ;  his  own  love 

bestowed 
Shall  do  it.     Love  thy  Father,  and  no 

more 
His   doings  shall  be  strange.     Thou 

shalt  not  fret 
At  any  counsel,   then,  that   He    ■will 

send,  — 
No,  nor  rebel,  albeit  He  have  with  thee 
Great   reservations.     Know,   to  Be  is 

more 
Than  to  have  acted ;  yea,  or,  after  rest 
And  patience,  to  have  risen  and  been 

wroth, 
Broken   the    sequence    of   an   ordered 

earth, 
And  troubled  nations." 

Then  the  dragon  sighed. 
"  Poor     fanatic,"    quoth    he,        thou 

speakest  well. 
Would  I  were  like  thee,  for  thy  faith  is 

strong. 
Albeit  thy  senses  wander.     Yea,  good 

sooth. 
My  masters,  let  us  not  despise,   but 

learn 
Fresh  loyalty  from  this  poor  loyal  soul. 
Let  us  go  forth  —  (myself  will  also  go 
To  head  you)  —  and  do  sacrifice;  for 

that. 
We  knrnv,   is  pleasing  to  the  mighty 

God: 


176 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


But  as  for  building  many  arks  of  wood, 
O  majesties!  when   He  shall  counsel 

you 
Himself,  then  build.     What  say  you, 

shall  it  be 
An  hundred  oxen,  — fat,  well   liking, 

white? 
An   hiuidred  ?   why,   a  thousand  were 

not  much 
To  such  as  you."     Then  Noah  lift  up 

his  arms 
To   heaven,   and  cried,    "Thou  aged 

shape  of  sin. 
The  Lord  rebuke  thee." 


BOOK  VIII. 

Then  one  ran,  crying,  while  Niloiya 

wrought, 
"The  Master  cometh  !  "  and  she  went 

within 
To    adorn    herself    for   meeting  him. 

And  Shem 
Went  forth  and  talked  with  Japhet  in 

the  field. 
And  said,   "Is  it  well,  my  brother?" 

He  replied, 
"  Well !  and,   I   pray  you,  is  it  well  at 

home  ? ' ' 

But    Shem    made    answer,     "  Can    a 

house  be  well, 
If  he   that   should   command  it  bides 

afar  ? 
Yet  well   is  thee,  because  a  fair  free 

maid 
Is  found  to  wed  thee ;  and  they  bring 

her  in 
This   day  at  sundown.      Therefore   is 

much  haste 
To  cover  thick  with  costly  webs  the 

floor. 
And  pluck  and  cover  thick  the  same 

with  leaves 
Of  all   sweet   herbs,  —  I    warrant,   ye 

shall  hear 
No  footfall  wliere  she  treadeth  ;    and 

the  seats 
Are   ready,    spread  with   robes ;    the 

tables  set 
With  golden  baskets,   red   pomegran- 
ates shred 


To  fill  them ;  and  the  rubied  censers 
smoke. 

Heaped  up  with  ambergris  and  cinna- 
mon. 

And  frankincense  and  cedar." 

Jiphet  said, 
"I  will  betroth  her  to  me  straight;" 

and  went 
(Yet  labored  he  with  sore  disquietude) 
To  gather  grapes,  and  reap  and  bind 

the  sheaf 
For  his  betrothal.     And    his  brother 

spake, 
"  Where  is  our  father  ?  doth  he  preach 

to-day?" 
And    Japhet    answered,    "Yea.      He 

said  to  me, 
'  Go  forward ;  I  will  follow  when  the 

folk 
By  yonder  mountain-hold  I  shall  have 

warned.'  " 

And    Shem    replied,    "  How    thinkest 

thou?  —  thine  ears 
Have  heard  him  oft."     He  answered, 

"1  do  think 
These  be  the  last  days  of  this  old  fair 

world." 

Then  he  did  tell  him  of  the  giant  folk : 
How  they,  than  he,  were  taller  by  the 

head ; 
How  one  must  stride  that  will  ascend 

the  steps 
That  lead  to  their  wide  halls ;  and  how 

they  drave. 
With  manful  shouts,,  the  mammoth  to 

the  north  ; 
And  how  the  talking  dragon  lied  and 

fawned. 
They   seated   proudly  on    their    ivory 

thrones. 
And  scorning  him  :  and  of  their  peaked 

hoods. 
And  garments  wrought  upon,  each  with 

the  tale 
Of  him  that  wore  it, — all  his  manful 

deeds 
(Yea,  and  about  th  eir  skirts  were  efligies 
Of  kings  that  they  had  slain  ;  and  some, 

whose  swords 
Many  had  pierced,  wore  vestures  all  of 

red, 


A    STORV  OF  DOOM. 


177 


To  signify  much  blood) :   and  of  their 

pride 
He  told,  but  of  the  vision  in  the  tent 
He  told  him  not. 

And  when  they  reached  the  house, 

Niloiya  met  them,  and  to  Japhet  cried, 

"All  hail,  right  fortunate!  Lo,  I  have 
found 

A  maid.  And  novi  thou  hast  done 
well  to  reap 

The  late  ripe  corn."  So  he  went  in 
with  her, 

And  she  did  talk  with  him  right  moth- 
erly : 

"  It  hath  been  fully  told  me  how  ye 
loathed 

To  wed  thy  father's  slave ;  yea,  she 
herself, 

Did  she  not  all  declare  to  me?" 

He  said, 
"Yet  is  thy  damsel  fair,  and  wise  of 

heart." 
"Yea,"  quoth  his  mother ;  "she  made 

clear  to  me 
How  ye  did  weep,  my  son,  and  ye  did 

vow, 
'  I  will  not  take  her ! '      Now,   it  was 

not  I 
That  wrought  to  have  it  so."     And  he 

replied, 
"  I  know  it."     Quoth  the  mother,  "  It 

is  well  ; 
For  that  same  cause  is  laughter  in  my 

heart." 
"But  she  is  sweet  of  language,"  Ja- 
phet said. 
"Ay,"  quoth  Niloiya,   "and  thy  wife 

no  less 
Whom  thou  shalt  wed  anon,  —  forsooth, 

anon,  — 
It  is  a  lucky  hour.     Thou  wilt  ? "     He 

said, 
"  I  will."    And  Japhet  laid  the  slender 

sheaf 
From   off   his   shoulder,   and  he  said, 

"  Behold, 
My  father!"     Then    Niloiya    turned 

herself, 
And  lo!  the  shipwright  stood.     "All 

hail !  "  quoth  she, 
And  bowed  herself,  and  kissed  him  on 

the  mouth ; 


But  while  she  spake  with  him,  sorely 

he  sighed ; 
And  she  did  hang  about  his  neck  the 

robe 
Of  feasting,  and  she  poured  upon  his 

hands 
Clear  water,  and  anointed  him,  and  set 
Before  him  bread. 

And  Japhet  said  to  him, 
"  My  father,  my  beloved,  wilt  thou  yet 
Be  sad  because  of  scorning?     Eat,  this 

day ; 
For  as  an  angel  in  their  eyes  thou  art 
Who  stand  before  thee."     But  he  an- 
swered, "  Peace! 
Thy  words  are  wide." 

And  when  Niloiya  heard, 
She  said,  "  Is  this  a  time  for  mirth  of 

heart 
And  wine?     Behold,  I  thought  to  wed 

my  son. 
Even  this  Japhet ;  but  is  this  a  time, 
When  sad  is  he  to  whom  is  my  desire, 
And  lying  under  sorrow  as  from  God  ? " 

He  answered,   "Yea,  it  is  a  time  of 

times ; 
Bring    in    the    maid."     Niloiya    said, 

"  I'he  maid 
That  first  I  spoke  on,  shall  not  Japhet 

wed  ; 
It  likes  not  her,  nor  yet  it  likes  not  me. 
But  I  have  found  another  ;  yea,  good 

sooth. 
The  damsel  will  not  tarry,  she  will  come 
With  all  her  slaves  by  sundown." 

And  she  said, 

"  Comfort  thy  heart,  and  eat :  more- 
over, know 

How  that  thy  great  work  even  to-day  is 
done. 

Sir,  thv  great  ship  is  finished,  and  the 
folk 

(For  I,  according  to  thy  will,  have  paid 

All  that  was  left  us  to  them  for  their 
wage) 

Have  brought,  as  to  a  storehouse,  flour 
of  wheat, 

Honey  and  oil, —  nuch  victu.il ;  yea, 
and  fruits, 


178 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM 


Curtains  and  household  gear.  And, 
sir,  they  say 

It  is  thy  will  to  take  it  for  thy  hold. 

Our  fastness  and  abode."  He  an- 
swered, "  Yea, 

Else  wherefore  was  it  built?"  She 
said,  ■■  Good  sir, 

I  pray  you  make  us  not  the  whole 
earth's  scorn. 

And  now,  to-morrow  in  thy  father's 
house 

Is  a  great  feast,  and  weddings  are  to- 
ward ; 

Let  be  the  ship,  till  after,  for  thy  words 

Have  ever  been,  '  If  God  shall  send  a 
flood. 

There  will  I  dwell ;'  I  pray  you  there- 
fore wait 

At  least  till  He  doth  send  it." 

And  he  turned, 

And  answered  nothing.  Now  the  sun 
was  low 

While  yet  she  spake  ;  and  Japhet  came 
to  them 

In  goodly  raiment,  and  upon  his  arm 

The  garment  of  betrothal.  And  with 
that 

A  noise,  and  then  brake  in  a  woman- 
slave 

And  Amarant.  This,  with  folding  of 
her  hands, 

Did  say  full  meekly,  "  If  I  do  offend. 

Yet  have  not  I  been  willing  to  offend ; 

For  now  this  woman  will  not  be  denied 

Herself  to  tell  her  errand." 

And  they  sat. 
Then    spoke  the  woman,    "  If    I    do 

ofiend, 
Pray  you  forgive  the  bond-slave,  for  her 

tongue 
Is  for  her  mistress.     '  Lo,'  my  mistress 

saith, 
'  Put  off  thy  braverj',  bridegroom  ;  fold 

away. 
Mother,  thy  webs  of  pride,  thy  costly 

robes 
Woven    of    many    colors.      We    have 

heard 
Thy   master.      Lo,    to-day   right    evil 

thmgs 
He   prophesied  to   us    that    were   his 

friends ; 


Therefore,  my  answer :  —  God  do  so  to 

me  ; 
Yea,  God  do  so  to  me,  more  also,  more 
Than  he  did  threaten,  if  my  damsel's 

foot 
Ever  draw  nigh  thy  door.'  " 

And  when  she  heard, 
Niloiya  sat  amazed,  in  grief  of  soul. 
But  Japhet  came  unto  the  slave,  where 

low 
She  bowed  herself  for  fear.     He  said, 

"Depart ; 
Say  to   thy   mistress,    '  It    is    well '  " 

With  that 
She  turned  herself,  and  she  made  haste 

to  flee. 
Lest  any,    for  those    evil    words    she 

brought. 
Would  smite  her.     But  the  bondmaid 

of  the  house 
Lift    up    her    hand    and  said,    "  If  I 

ofiend, 
It  was  not  of  my  heart :    thy  damsel 

knew 
Naught  of  this  matter."     And  he  held 

to  her 
His  hand  and  touched  her,  and  said, 

"  Amarant  1" 
And  when  she  looked  upon  him,  she 

did  take 
And  spread  before  her  face  her  radiant 

locks. 
Trembling.     And  Japhet  said,   "  Lift 

up  thy  face, 

0  fairest   of   the   daughters,    thy  fair 

face ; 
For,  lo  !   the  bridegroom  standeth  with 

the  robe 
Of  thy  betrothal!  "  —  and  he  took  her 

locks 
In  his  two  hands  to  part  them  from 

her  brow. 
And  laid  them  on  her  shoulders  ;  and 

he  said, 
"  Sweet  are  the  blushes  of  thy  face," 

and  put 
The  robe  upon  her,  having  said,  "  Be- 
hold, 

1  have  repented  me  :  and  oft  by  night, 
In    the    waste    wilderness,    while    all 

things  slept, 
I   thought  upon   thy  words,  for  they 
were  sweet. 


A    STORl'  OF  DOOM. 


"79 


"  For  this  I  make  thee  free.     And  now 

thyself 
Art  lovehest  in  mine  eyes  ;  I  look,  and 

lo! 
Thou  art   of   beauty  more   than   any 

thought 
I  had  concerning  thee.     Let,  then,  this 

robe. 
Wrought  on  with  imagery  of  fruitful 

bough. 
And  graceful  leaf,  and  birds  with  ten- 
der eyes. 
Cover  the  ripples  of  thy  tawny  hair." 
So,    when    she    held    her    peace,    he 

brought  her  nigh 
To  hear  the  speech  of  wedlock ;  ay,  he 

took 
The  golden  cup  of  wine  to  drink  with 

her. 
And  laid  the  sheaf  upon  her  arms.     He 

said, 
"  Like  as  my  fathers  in  the  older  days 
Led  home  the  daughters  whom  they 

chose,  do  I  ; 
Like  as  they  said,  '  Mine  honor  have  I 

set 
Upon  thy  head!'  do  L     Eat   of  my 

bread. 
Rule  in  my  house,  be  mistress  of  my 

slaves, 
And  mother  of  my  children." 

And  he  brought 
The  damsel  to  his  father,  saying,  "  Be- 
hold 
My  vnfe  !     I  have  betrothed  her  to  my- 
self ; 
1  pray  you,  kiss  her."     And  the  Mas- 
ter did  : 
He  said,  "  Be  mother  of  a  multitude, 
And  let  them  to  their  father  even  so 
Be  found  as  he  is  found  to  me." 

With  that 
She  answered,  "  Let  this  woman,  sir, 

find  grace 
And  favor  m  your  sight." 

And  Japhet  said, 
"  Sweet  mother,  I  have  wed  the  maid 

ye  chose 
And  brought  me  first.     I  leave  her  in 

thy  hand  ; 


Have   care  on   her,  till  I  shall  come 

again 
And  ask  her  of  thee."     So  they  went 

apart. 
He   and   his  father,   to  the  marriage 

feast. 


The  prayer  of  Noah.     The  man  went 

forth  by  night 
And  listened  ;  and  the  earth  was  dark 

and  still. 
And  he  was  driven  of  his  great  distress 
Into  the  forest ;  but  the  birds  of  night 
Sang    sweetly ;    and  he  fell   upon   his 

face. 
And  cried,   "God,  God!     Thy  billows 

and  Thy  waves 
Have  swallowed  up  my  soul. 

"  Where  is  my  God? 
For  I  have  somewhat  yet  to  plead  with 

Thee ; 
For  I  have  walked  the  strands  of  Thy 

great  deep, 
Heard  the  dull  thunder  of  its  rage  afar, 
And  its  dread  moaning.     O,  the  field 

is  sweet,  — 
Spare   it.     The   delicate  woods   make 

white  their  trees 
With  blossom, — spare  them.     Life  is 

sweet ;  behold 
There  is  much  cattle,  and  the  wild  and 

tame, 
Father,  do  feed  in  quiet,  —  spare  them. 

"  God ! 
Where   is  my  God?     The  long  wave 

doth  not  rear 
Her  ghostly  crest  to  lick  the  forest  up, 
And  like  a  chief  in  battle  fall,  —  not 

yet. 
The   lightnings  pour  not  down,   from 

ragged  holes 
In  heaven,  the  torment  of  their  forked 

tongues. 
And,  like  fell  serpents,  dart  and  sting, 

—  not  yet. 
The  winds  awake  not,  with  their  awful 

wings 
To  winnow,   even  as  chaff,   from  out 

their  track, 


i8o 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM. 


All  that  withstandeth,  and  bring  down 

the  pride 
Of    all    things   strong   and   all   things 

high,- 

"  Not  yet. 
O,  let   it  not   be   yet.     Where   is  my 

God? 
How   am   I  saved,   if  I   and  mine  be 

saved 
Alone?     I  am   not  saved,  for  I  have 

loved 
My  country  and  my  kin.     Must  I,  Thy 

thrall, 
Over  their  lands  be  lord  when  they  are 

gone  ? 
I    would   not :    spare    them,    Mighty. 

,  Spare  Thyself, 
For  Thou  dost  love  them  greatly,  — 

and  if  not  ..." 

Another  praying  unremote,   a  Voice 
Calm    as  the   solitude  between   wide 
stars. 

"  Where  is  my  God,   who  loveth  this 

lost  world,  — 
Lost  from  its  place  and  name,  but  won 

for  Thee  ? 
Where    is    my   multitude,    my    multi- 
tude, 
Thit    I    shall    gather?"     And    white 

smoke  went  up 
From   incense  that  was   burning,  but 

there  gleamed 
No    light    of   fire,   save    dimly   to  re- 
veal 
The  whiteness  rising,  as  the  prayer  of 

him 
That  mourned.     "  My  God,  appear  for 

me,  appear ; 
Give  me  my  multitude,  for  it  is  mine. 
The  •bitterness   of   death    I    have   not 

feared. 
To-morrow  shall  Thy  courts,  O  God, 

be  full. 
Then  shall  the  captive  from  his  bonds 

go  free. 
Then  shall  the   thrall   find  rest,   that 

knew  not  rest 
From  labor  and  from  blows.     The  sor- 

ro\\'ful  — 
That  said  of  joy,  'What  is  it?'   and  of 

songs, 


'  We  have  not  heard  them '  —  shall  be 

glad  and  sing ; 
Then  shall  the  little  ones  that  knew  not 

Thee, 
And  such  as  heard  not  of  Thee,  see 

Thy  face. 
And,  seeing,  dwell  content." 

The  prayer  of  Noah. 
He  cried  out  in  the  darkness,  "  Hear, 

O  God, 
Hear  Him  :    hear  this   one ;    through 

the  gates  of  death, 
If  life  be  all  past  praying  for,  O  give 
To    Thy  great    multitude    a    way    to 

peace ; 
Give  them  to  Him. 

"  But  yet,"  said  he,  "  O  yet, 
If  there  be  respite  for  the  terrible. 
The  proud,  yea,  such  as  scorn  Thee,  — 

and  if  not  .  .  . 
Let  not  mine  eyes  behold  their  fall." 

He  cried, 
"  Forgive.     I  have  not  done  Thy  work, 

Great  Judge, 
With  a  perfect  heart ;  I  have  but  half 

believed. 
While  in  accustomed  language  I  have 

warned  ; 
And  now  there  is  no  more  to  do,  no 

place 
For  my  repentance,  yea,  no  hour  re- 
mains 
For    doing   of   that  work    again.      O 

lost. 
Lost  world!  "     And  while  he  prayed, 

the  daylight  dawned. 

Arjd  Noah  went  up  into  the  ship,  and 

sat 
Before  the  Lord.     And  all  was  still  ; 

and  now 
In  that  great  quietness  the  sun  came 

"P>  ,  .  . 

And  there  were  marks  across  it,  as  it 

were 
The   shadow    of    a    Hand    upon    the 

sun,  — 
Three    fingers    dark   and   dread,    and 

afterward 


A    STORY  OF  DOOM. 


There   rose   a  white   th'.ck  mist,  that 

peacefully 
Folded   the  fair  earth  in  her  funeral 

shroud,  — 
The  earth  that  gave  no  token,  save  that 

now 
There  fell  a  little  trembling  under  foot. 

And  Noah  went  down,  and  took  and 

hid  his  face 
Behind  his  mantle,   saying,    "  I  have 

made 
Great    preparation,    and    it    may    be 

yet. 
Beside  my  house,  whom  I  did  charge 

to  come 
This  day  to  meet  me,  there  may  enter 

in 
Many  that  yesternight  thought  scorn  of 

all 
My  bidding."     And  because  the  fog 

was  thick, 
He  said,  ''  Forbid  it.   Heaven,  if  such 

there  be, 
That  they  should  miss  the  way."     And 

even  then 
There  was  a  noise  of  weeping  and  la- 
ment ; 
The  words  of  them  that  were  affrighted, 

yea, 
And  cried  for  grief  of  heart.     There 

came  to  him 
The  mother  and  her  children,  and  they 

cried, 
"Speak,  father,  what  is  this?    What 

hast  thou  done?" 
And   when   he   lifted  up  his   face,  he 

saw 
Japhet,    his    well-belovid,    where   he 

stood 
Apart ;  and  Amarant  leaned  upon  his 

breast. 
And  hid  her  face,   for  she  was  sore 

afraid ; 
And  lo!  the  robes    of   her   betrothal 

gleamed 
White  in  the  deadly  gloom. 

And  at  his  feet 
The  wives  of  liis  two  other  sons  did 

kneel, 
And  wring  their  hands. 


One  cried,  "  O,  speak  to  us  ; 
We  are  affrighted ;  we  have  dreamed  a 

dream. 
Each  to  herself.     For  me,   I   saw  in 

mine 
The  grave  old  angels,  like  to  shepherds, 

walk. 
Much     cattle    following    them.       Thy 

daughter  looked. 
And  they  did  enter  here." 

The  other  lay 
And  moaned,  "  Alas!  O  father,  for  my 

dream 
Was  evil :  lo,  I  heard  when  it  was  dark, 
I  heard  two  wicked  ones  contend  for 

me. 
One  said,  '  And  wherefore  should  this 

woman  live. 
When  only  for  her  children,  and  for 

her. 
Is   woe   and   degradation?'     Then  he 

laughed. 
The     other     crying,     '  Let     alone,    O 

Prince  ; 
Hinder  her  not  to  live  and  bear  much 

seed. 
Because  I  hate  her.'  " 

But  he  said,  "  Rise  up, 
Daughters  of  Noah,  for  I  have  learned 

no  words 
To  comfort  you."      Then  spake  her 

lord  to  her, 
"  Peace !  or  1  swear  that  for  thy  dream 

myself 
Will  hate  thee  also." 

And  Niloiya  said, 
"  My  sons,  if  one  of  you  will  hear  my 

words. 
Go  now,  look  out,  and  tell  me  of  the 

day. 
How  fares  it?" 

And  the  fateful  darkness  grew. 
But  Shera  went  up  to  do  his  mother's 

will; 
And  all  was  one  as  though  the  frighted 

earth 
Quivered   and   fell  a-trembling ;    then 

they  hid 


l82 


CONTRASTED  SONGS. 


Their  faces  every  one.  till  he  returned, 
And  spake  not.     "Nay,"  they  cried, 

"  what  hast  thou  seen  ? 
O,  is- it  come  to  this?"     He  answered 

them, 
"The  door  is  shut." 


CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

SAILING    BEYOND   SEAS. 

{Old  Style.) 

Methought  the  stars  were  blinking 
bright. 
And  the  old  brig's  sails  unfurled ; 
I  said,    "  I    will   sail   to  my  love  this 
night 
At  the  other  side  of  the  world." 
I  stepped  aboard,  —  we  sailed  so  fast,  — 

The  sun  shot  up  from  the  bourn  ; 
But  a  dove  that  perched  upon  the  mast 
Did  mourn,  and  mourn,  and  mourn. 
O  fair  dove !   O  fond  dove  ! 

And  dove  with  the  white  breast. 
Let  me  alone,  the  dream  is  my  own, 
And  my  heart  is  full  of  rest. 

My  true  love  fares  on  this  great  hill. 

Feeding  his  sheep  for  aye  ; 
I  looked  in  his  hut,  but  all  was  still, 

]\Iy  love  was  gone  away. 
I  went  to  gaze  in  the  forest  creek. 

And  the  dove  mourned  on  apace  ; 
No  flame  did  flash,  nor  fair  blue  reek 
Rose  up  to  show  me  his  place. 
O  last  love!  O  first  love! 

My  love  with  the  true  heart. 
To  think  I  have  come  to  this  your 
home. 
And  yet  —  we  are  apart ! 

My  love !     He  stood  at  my  right  hand. 
His  eyes  were  grave  and  sweet. 

Methought  he  said,  "  In  this  far  land, 
O,  is  it  thus  we  meet  ? 

Ah,  maid  most  deir,  I  am  not  here ; 
I  have  no  place,  —  no  part,  — 


No  dwelling  more  by  sea  or  shore. 
But  only  in  thy  he.art." 
O  fair  dove  I   O  fond  dove  ! 

Till  night  rose  over  the  bourn, 
The  dove  on  the  mast,  as  we  sailed 
fast. 
Did    mourn,    and    mourn,    and 
mourn. 


REMONSTRANCE. 

Daughters  of  Eve !  your  mother  did 
not  well : 
She  laid  the  apple  in  your  father's 
hand. 
And  we  have  read,  O  wonder!  what 
befell,  — 
The  man  was  not  deceived,  nor  yet 
could  stand  ; 
He  chose  to  lose,  for  love  of  her,  his 
throne,  — 
With  her  could  die,  but  could  not  live 
alone. 

Daughters  of  Eve !  he  did  not  fall  so 
low. 
Nor  fall  so  far,  as  that  sweet  woman 
fell; 

For  something  better,  than  as  gods  to 
know, 

That  husband  in   that  home   left  off 
to  dwell : 

For  this,  till  love  be  reckoned  less  than 
lore. 
Shall  man  be  first  and  best  for  ever- 
more. 


Daughters  of  Eve !  it  was  for  your  dear 
sake 
The  world's  first  hero  died  an  un- 
crowned king ; 
But  God's  great  pity  touched  the  grand 
mistake. 
And  made  his  married  love  a  sacred 
thing: 
For  yet  his  nobler   sons,  if  aught   be 
true. 
Find  the  lest  Eden  in  their  love  to 
you. 


CONTRASTED   SONGS. 


183 


SONG    FOR    THE    NIGHT    OF 
CHRIST'S   RESURRECTION. 

{_A  Hitinble  Imitation.) 

"  And  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on 
the  charmed  wave." 


It  is  the  noon  of  night, 
And  the  world's  Great  Light 
Gone  out,  she  widow-like  dolh  carry 
her: 
The  moon  hath  veiled  her  face, 
Nor  looks  on  that  dread  place 
Where  He  lieth  dead  in  sealed  sepul- 
chre ; 
And  heaven  and  hades,  emptied, 
lend 
Their  flocking  multitudes  to  watch  and 
wait  the  end. 

Tier  above  tier  they  rise. 
Their  wings  new  line  the  skies. 
And  shed  out  comforting  light  among 
the  stars ; 
But  they  of  the  other  place 
The  heavenly  signs  deface. 
The  gloomy  brand  of  hell  their  bright- 
ness mars ; 
Yet  high  they  sit  in  thronM  state,  — 
It  is  the  hour  of  darkness  to  them  dedi- 
cate. 

And  first  and  highest  set. 
Where  the  black  shades  are  met. 
The  lord  of  night  and  hades  leans 
him  down  ; 
His  gleaming  eyeballs  show 
More  awful  tlian  the  glow 
Which  hangeth  by  the  points  of  his 
dread  cro%vn ; 
And  at  his  feet,  where  lightnings 
play, 
The  fatal  sisters  sit  and    weep,   and 
curse  their  day. 

Lo  !  one,  with  eyes  all  wide. 
As  she  were  sight  denied, 
Sits  blindly  feeling  at  her  distaff  old  ; 

One,  as  distraught  with  woe, 

Letting  the  spindle  go, 


Her  starrj'-sprinkled  gown  doth  shiv- 
ering fold ; 
And  one  right  mournfid  hangs  her 
head. 
Complaining,  "Woe  is  me!   I  may  not 
cut  the  thread. 


"  All  men  of  every  birth, 
Yea,  great  ones  of  the  earth. 
Kings  and  their  councillors,  have  I 
drawn  down  ; 
But  I  am  held  of  Thee,  — 
Why  dost  Thou  trouble  me, 
To  bring  me   up,   dead   King,   that 
keep'st  Thy  crown? 
Yet  for  all  courtiers  hast  but  ten 
Lowly,  milettered,  Galilean  fishermen. 


"  Olympian  heights  are  bare 
Of  whom  men  worshipped  there. 
Immortal  feet  their  snows  may  print 
no  more ; 
Their  stately  powers  below 
Lie  desolate,  nor  know 
This  thirty  years  Thessalian  grove  or 
shore  ; 
But  I  am  elder  far  than  they  ;  — 
Where  is  the  sentence  writ  that  I  must 
pass  away  ? 

"  Art  thou  come  up  for  this, 
Dark  regent,  awful  Dis  ? 
And  hast  thou  moved  the  deep  to 
mark  our  ending  ? 
And  stirred  the  dens  beneath 
To  see  us  eat  of  death, 
With  all  the  scoffing  heavens  toward 
us  bending? 
Help!    powers  of   ill,  see   not  us 
die!" 
But   neither  demon  dares,   nor  angel 
deigns,  reply. 

Her  sisters,  fallen  on  sleep, 
Fade  in  the  upper  deep. 
And  their  grim  lord  sits  on,  in  doleful 
trance  \ 
Till  her  black  veil  she  rends, 
And  with  her  death-shriek  bends 
Downward  the  terrors  of  her  counte- 
nance ; 


i84 


CONTRASTED  SOXGS. 


Then,  whelmed  in  night  and  no 
more  seen, 
They  leave  the  world  a  doubt  if  ever 
such  have  been. 


And  the  winged  armies  twain 
Their  awful  watch  maintain  ; 
They  mark  the  earth  at  rest  with  her 
Great  Dead. 
Behold,  from  Antres  wide. 
Green  Atlas  heave  his  side  ; 
His  moving  woods  their  scarlet  clus- 
ters shed, 
The   swathing  coif  his  front  that 
cools, 
And  tawny  lions  lapping  at  his  palm- 
edged  pools. 

Then  like  a  heap  of  snow, 
Lying  where  grasses  grow, 
See   glimmering,    while   the   moony 
lustres  creep, 
Mild-mannered  Athens,  dight 
In  dewy  marbles  white, 
Among    her    goddesses    and    gods 
asleep ; 
And,  swaying  on  a  purple  sefi. 
The  many  moored  galleys  clustering  at 
her  quay. 

Also,  'neath  palm-trees'  shade, 
Amid  their  camels  laid, 
The    pastoral    tribes  with  all   their 
flocks  at  rest  ; 
I^ike  to  tliose  old-world  folk 
With  whom  two  angels  broke 
The  bread  of  men  at  Abram's  cour- 
teous 'quest. 
When,   listening  as  they   prophe- 
.sied. 
His   desert  princess,  bemg  reproved, 
lier  laugh  denied. 


Or  from  the  Morians'  land 
See  worshipped  Nilus  bland, 
Taking  the  silver  road  he  gave  the 
world. 
To  wet  his  ancient  shrine 
With  waters  held  divine. 
And    touch    his  temple  steps   with 
wavelets  ciurled. 


And  list,   ere  darkness  change  to 
graV) 
Old  minstrel-throated  Memnon  chant- 
ing in  the  day. 

Moreover,  Indian  glades, 
Where  kneel  the  sun-swart  maids, 
On  Gunga's  flood  their  votive  flow- 
ers to  throw, 
And  launch  i'  the  sultrj'  night 
Their  burning  cressets  bright, 
Most  like  a  fleet  of  stars  that  south- 
ing go. 
Till  on  her  bosom  prosperously 
She  floats  them  shining  forth  to  sail  the 
lulled  sea. 


Nor  bend  they  not  their  eyn 
Where  the  watch-fires  shine, 
By  shepherds  fed,  on  hills  of  Beth' 
lehem  : 
They  mark,  in  goodly  wise, 
The  city  of  David  rise. 
The  gates  and  towers  of  rare  Jeru- 
salem ; 
And  hear  the  'scaped  Kedron  fret, 
And    night    dews   dropping  from  the 
leaves  of  Olivet— 


But  now  the  setting  moon 
To  curtained  lands  must  soon, 
In  her  obedient  fashion,  minister  ; 
She  first,  as  loath  to  go. 
Lets  her  last  silver  flow 
Upon  her  Master's  sealed  sepulchre  ; 
And     trees    that    in    the    garden 
spread. 
She  kisseth  all  for  sake  of  His  low- 
lying  head, 

Then  'neath  the  rim  goes  down  ; 
And  night  with  darker  frown 
Sinks  on  the  fateful  garden  watchfed 
long ; 
When  some  despairing  eyes. 
Far  in  the  murky  skies. 
The  unw  islied  waking  by  their  gloom 
foretell ; 
And    blackness    up    the    welkin 
swings, 
And  drinks  the  mild  effulgence  from 
celestial  wings. 


CONTRASTED   SONGS. 


185 


Last,  with  amazM  cry, 
The  hosts  asunder  fly, 
Leaving  an  empty  gUif  of  blackest 
hue  ; 
Whence     straightway    shooteth 

down, 
B>;  the  Great  Father  thrown, 
A  migluy  angel,  strong  and  dread  to 
view  ; 
And  at  his  fall  the  rocks  are  rent, 
The   waiting  world   doth  quake  with 
mortal  tremblement ; 

The  regions  far  and  near 
Quail  with  a  pause  of  fear. 
More  terrible  than  aught  since  time 
began  ; 
The  winds,  that  dare  not  fleet. 
Drop  at  his  awful  feet. 
And  in  its  bed  wails  the  wide  ocekn  ; 
The   flower  of  dawn  forbears   to 
blow, 
And  the  oldest   running  river  cannot 
skill  to  flow. 

At  stand,  by  that  dread  place, 
He  lifts  his  radiant  face, 
And  looks  to  heaven  with  reverent 
love  and  fear ; 
Then,  while  the  welkin  quakes. 
And  muttering  thunder  breaks. 
And  lightnings  shoot  and  ominous 
meteors  drear. 
And   all   the   daunted   earth  doth 
moan. 
He  from  the  doors  of  death  rolls  back 
the  sealed  stone. — 

—  In  rega!  quiet  deep, 
Lo,  One  new  waked  from  sleep! 
Behold,   He   standeth   in  the  rock- 
hewn  door ! 
Thy  children  shall  not  die, — 
Peace,  peace,  thy  Lord  is  by ! 
He  livelh !  —  they  shall  live  for  ever- 
more. 
Peace  I  lo.  He  lifts  a  priestly  hand. 
And  blesseth  all  the  sons  of  men  in 
every  land. 

Then,  with  great  dread  and  wail, 
Fall  down,  like  storms  of  hail. 
The   legions   of   the   lost   in  fearful 
wise  ; 


And  they  whose  blissful  race 
Peoples  the  better  place 
Lift  up  their  wings  to  cover  their  fair 
eyes, 
And    through   the  waxing  saffron 
brede, 
Till  they  are  lost  in  light,  recede,  and 
yet  recede. 

So  while  the  fields  are  dim, 
And  the  red  sun  his  rim 
First  heaves,    in  token  of  his  reign 
benign. 
All  stars  the  most  admired, 
Into  their  blue  retired. 
Lie  hid,  —  the  faded  moon  forgets  to 
shine,  — 
And,    hurrying  down  the   sphery 
way. 
Night  flies  and  sweeps  her  shadow  from 
the  paths  of  day. 

But  look !  the  Saviour  blest. 
Calm  after  solemn  rest, 
Stands  in  the  garden 'neath  Hisolivs- 
boughs ; 
The  earliest  smile  of  day 
Doth  on  His  vesture  play, 
And  light  the  majesty  of  His  still 
brows ; 
While  angels  hang  with  wings  out- . 
spread, 
Holding  the  new-won  crown  above  His 
saintly  head. 


SONG  OF  MARGARET. 

Ay,  I  saw  her,  we  have  met,  — 

Married  eyes,  how  sweet  they  be,  — 
Are  you  happier,  Margaret, 

Than  you  might  have  been  with  me  ? 
Silence !   make  no  more  ado  ! 

Did  she  think  I  should  forget? 
Matters  nothing,  though  I  knew, 

Margaret,  Margaret. 

Once  those  eyes,  full  sweet,  full  shy, 
Told  a  certain  thing  to  mine  ; 

What  they  told  nie  I  put  by, 
O,  30  careless  of  the  sign. 


i86 


CONTRASTED  SONGS. 


Such  an  easy  thing  to  take, 
And  I  did  not  want  it  then  ; 

Fool !   I  wish  my  heart  would  break, 
Scorn  is  hard  on  hearts  of  men. 


Scorn  of  self  is  bitter  work,  — 

Each  of  us  has  felt  it  now: 
Bluest  skies  she  counted  mirk. 

Self-betrayed  of  eyes  and  brow  ; 
As  for  me,  I  went  my  way. 

And  a  better  man  drew  nigh, 
Fain  to  earn,  with  long  essay, 

What  the  winner's  hand  threw  by. 

Matters  not  in  deserts  old. 

What   was    bom,    and   waxed,    and 
yearned. 
Year  to  year  its  meaning  told, 

I  am  come,  —  its  deeps  are  learned,  — 
Come,  but  there  is  naught  to  say,  — • 

Married  eyes  with  mine  have  met. 
Silence  !   O,  I  had  my  day, 

Margaret,  Margaret. 


SONG  OF  THE   GOING  AWAY. 


"  Old  man,  upon  the  green  hillside. 
With  yellow  flowers  tesprinkled  o'er. 

How  long  in  silence  wilt  thou  bide 
At  this  low  stone  door  ? 

"  I  stoop :  within  'tis  dark  and  still ; 

But  shadowy  paths  methinks  there 
be. 
And  lead  they  far  into  the  hill  ?" 

"  Traveller,  come  and  see." 


"'Tis  dark,    'tis  cold,  and  hung  with 
gloom  ; 

I  care  not  now  within  to  stay  ; 
For  thee  and  me  is  scarcely  room, 

I  will  hence  away." 

"  Not  so,  not  so,  thou  youthful  guest. 
Thy  foot  shall  issue  forth  no  more  : 

Behold  the  chamber  of  thy  rest, 
And  the  closing  door ! ' ' 


"  O,  have  I  'scaped  the  whistling  ball, 
And  striven  on  smoky  fields  of  fight, 

And  scaled  the  'leaguered  city's  wall 
In  the  daaigerous  night ; 

"  And  borne  my  life  unharmed  stiU 
Through    foaming    gulfs    of   yeasty 
spray, 

To  yield  it  on  a  grassy  hiU 
At  the  noon  of  day?" 

"Peace!     Say  thy  prayers,  and  go  to 
sleep. 
Till  some  time.  One  my  seal  shall 
break. 
And  deep  shall  answer  unto  deep, 
When  He  crieth,  'Awake!  ' '' 


A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE. 

(Song  of  tlie  unconitnunicated  Ideal.") 

I. 

I  OPENED  the  eyes  of  my  soul. 

And  behold, 
A  white  river-lily:  a  lily  awake,  and 

aware,  — 
For  she  set  her  face  upward,  —  aware 

how  in  scarlet  and  gold 
A  long  wrinkled  cloud,  left  behind  of 
the  wandering  air. 
Lay  over  with  fold  upon  fold, 
With  fold  upon  fold. 

And  the  blushing  sweet  shame  of  the 

cloud  made  her  also  ashamed. 
The    white    river-lily,    that    suddenly 

knew  she  was  fair  ; 
And  over  the  far-away  mountains  that 

no  man  hath  named. 
And  that  no  foot  hath  trod. 
Flung  down   out   of  heavenly  places, 

there  fell,  as  it  were, 
A  rose-bloom,   a  token  of  love,   that 

should  make  them  endure. 
Withdrawn  in  snow  silence  forever,  who 

keep  themselves  pure. 
And  look  up  to  God. 


CONTRASTED  SONGS. 


Then  I  said,  "  In  rosy  air, 
Cradled  on  thy  reaches  fair, 
While  the  blushing  early  ray 
Whitens  into  perfect  clay, 
River-lily,  sweetest  known, 
Art  thou  set  for  me  alone  ? 
Nay,  but  I  will  bear  thee  far, 
Where  yon  clustering  steejiles  are. 
And  the  bells  ring  out  o'erhead. 
And  the  stated  prayers  are  said ; 
And  the  busy  farmer's  pace, 
Trading  in  the  market-place ; 
And  the  country  lasses  sit 
By  their  butter,  praising  it ; 
And  the  latest  news  is  told. 
While  the  fruit  and  cream  are  sold ; 
And  the  friendly  gossips  greet. 
Up  and  down  the  sunny  street. 
For,"  I  said,  "I  have  not  met, 
White  one,  any  folk  as  yet 
Who  would  send  no  blessing  up, 
Looking  on  a  face  like  thine ; 
For  thou  art  as  Joseph's  cup. 
And  by  thee  might  they  divine. 

"  Nay !  but  thou  a  spirit  art ; 
Men  shall  take  thee  in  the  mart 
For  the  ghost  of  their  best  thought. 
Raised    at    noon,    and    near    them 

brought ; 
Or  the  prayer  they  made  last  night, 
Set  before  them  all  in  white." 

And  I  put  out  my  rash  hand. 
For  I  thought  to  draw  to  land 
The  white  lily.     Was  it  fit 
Such  a  blossom  should  expand. 
Fair  enough  for  a  world's  wonder, 
And  no  mortal  gather  it? 
No.     I  strove,  and  it  went  under. 
And  I  drew,  but  it  went  down  ; 
And  the  water-weeds'  long  tresses, 
And  the  overlapping  cresses. 
Sullied  its  admired  crown. 
Then  along  the  river  strand. 
Trailing,  wrecked,  it  came  to  land, 
"Of  its  beauty  half  despoiled, 
And  its  snowy  pureness  soiled : 
O  !   I  took  it  ni  my  hand,  — 
You  will  never  see  it  now. 
White  and  golden  as  it  grew  : 
No,  I  cannot  show  it  you. 
Nor  the  cheerful  town  endow 
With  the  freshness  of  its  brow. 


If  a  royal  painter,  great 
With  the  colors  dedicate 
To  a  dove's  neck,  a  sea-bight, 
And  the  flickerings  over  white 
Mountain  summits  far  away,  — 
One  content  to  give  his  mind 
To  the  enrichment  of  mankind, 
And  the  laying  up  of  light 
In  men's  houses,  — on  that  day. 
Could  have  passed  in  kingly  mood, 
Would  he  ever  have  endued 
Canvas  with  the  peerless  thing, 
In  the  grace  that  it  did  bring, 
And  the  light  that  o'er  it  flowed. 
With  the  pureness  that  it  showed, 
And  the  pureness  that  it  meant  ? 
Could  he  skill  to  make  it  seen 
As  he  saw?     For  this,  I  ween, 
He  were  likewise  impotent. 


I  opened  the  doors  of  my  heart. 

And  behold. 
There  was  music  within  and  a  song, 
And  echoes  did  feed  on  the  sweetness, 

repeating  it  long. 
I  opened  the  doors  of  my  heart.     And 

behold. 
There  was  music  that  played  itself  out 

in  a?olian  notes  ; 
Then  was  heard,  as  a  far-away  bell  at 
long  intervals  tolled, 
That  murmurs  and  floats. 
And  presently  dieth,  forgotten  of  forest 

and  wold, 
And  comes  in  all  passion  again  and  a 
tremblement  soft. 
That  maketh  the  listener  full  oft 
To  whisper,  "  Ah  !  would  I  might  hear 
it  forever  and  aye. 
When  I  toil  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
When  I  walk  in  the  cold." 

I  opened  the  door  of  my  heart.    And 

behold. 
There  was  music  within,  and  a  song. 
But  while  I  was  hearkening,  lo,  black- 
ness without,  thick  and  strong, 
Came  up  and  came  over,  and  all  that 
sweet  fluting  was  drowned, 
I  could  hear  it  no  more  ; 


i88 


CONTRASTED  SONGS. 


For  the  welkin  was  moaning,  the  waters 
were  stirred  on  the  shore, 
And  trees  in  the  dark  all  around 

Were  shaken.     It  thundered.    '"  Hark, 
hark !  there  is  thunder  to-night  I 

The  suhen  long  wave  rears  her  head, 
and  conies  down  with  a  will  ; 

The  awful  white  tongues  are  let  loose, 
and  the  stars  are  all  dead  ;  — 

There   is   thunder!    it   thunders!    and 
ladders  of  light 
Run  up.     There  is  thunder!  "  I 
said, 

"Loud  thunder!  it  thunders!   and  up 
in  the  dark  overhead, 

A  down-pouring  cloud  (there  is  thun- 
der!), a  down-pouring  cloud 

Hails  out  her  fierce  message,  and  quiv- 
ers the  deep  in  its  bed. 

And  cowers  the  earth  held  at  bay  ;  and 
they  mutter  aloud. 

And  pause  with  an  ominous  tremble, 
till,  great  in  their  rage, 

The  heavens  and  earth  come  together, 
and  meet  with  a  crash  ; 

And  the  fight  is  so  fell  as  if  Time  had 
come  down  with  the  flash, 
And  the  story  of  life  was  all  read. 
And  the  Giver  had  turned  the  last 
page 

Now  their  bar  the  pent  water-floods 
lash, 
And  the  forest  trees  give  out  their  lan- 
guage austere  with  great  age  ; 

And  there  flieth  o'er  moor  and  o'er 
hill. 

And  there  heaveth  at  intervals  wide, 
The  long  sob  of  nature's  great  passion, 
as  loath  to  subside. 

Until  quiet  drop  down  on  the  tide, 

And  mad  Echo  hath  moaned  herself 
stiU. 

Lo!  or  ever  I  was  'ware, 

In  the  silence  of  the  air, 
Tlirough  my  heart's  wide-open  door, 
Music  floated  forth  once  more. 
Floated  to  the  world's  dark  rim, 
And  looked  over  with  a  hymn  ; 
Then  came  home  with  flutings  fine, 
And  discoursed  in  tones  divine 
Of  a  certain  grief  of  mine  ; 


And  went  downward  and  went  in, 
Glimpses  of  my  soul  to  win, 
And  di.icovered  such  a  deep- 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  weep. 
For  it  lay,  a  land-locked  sea, 
Fathomless  and  dim  to  me. 

O  the  song !  it  came  and  went, 
Went  and  came. 

I  have  not  learned 
Half  the  lore  whereto  it  yearned, 
Half  the  magic  that  it  meant. 
Water  booming  in  a  cave  ; 
Or  the  swell  of  some  long  wave, 
Setting  in  from  unrevealed 
Countries  ;  or  a  foreign  tongue, 
Sweetly  talked  and  deftly  sung, 
While  the  meaning  is  half  sealed ; 
May  be  like  it.     You  have  heard 
Also  ;  —  can  you  find  a  word 
For  the  naming  of  such  song  ? 
No ;  a  name  would  do  it  wrong. 
You  have  heard  it  in  the  night. 
In  the  dropping  rain's  despite, 
In  the  midnight  darkness  deep. 
When  the  children  were  asleep. 
And  the  wife  —  no,  let  that  be  ; 
She  asleep  !   She  knows  right  well 
What  the  song  to  you  and  me. 
While  we  breathe,  can  never  tell ; 
She  hath  heard  its  faultless  flow, 
Where  the  roots  of  music  grow. 

While  I  listened,  like  young  birds. 
Hints  were  fluttering  ;  almost  words,  — 
Leaned  and  leaned,  and  nearer  came  ;  — 
Everything  had  changed  its  name. 

Sorrow  was  a  ship,  I  found. 
Wrecked  with  them  that  in  her  are. 
On  an  island  richer  far 
Than  the  port  where  they  were  bound 
Fear  was  but  the  awful  boom 
Of  the  old  great  bell  of  doom, 
Tolling,  far  from  earthly  air. 
For  all  worlds  to  go  to  prayer. 
Pain,  that  to  us  mortal  clings, 
But  the  pushing  of  our  wings, 
That  we  have  no  use  for  yet. 
And  the  uprooting  of  our  feet 
From  the  soil  where  they  are  set. 
And  the  land  we  reckon  sweet. 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


Love  in  growth,  the  grand  deceit 
Whereby  men  the  perfect  greet ; 
Love  in  wane,  the  blessing  sent 
To  be  (howsoe'er  it  went) 
Nevermore  with  eartli  content. 

O,  full  sweet,  and  O,  full  high, 

Ran  that  music  up  the  sky  ; 

But  I  c.mnot  sing  it  you. 

More  than  I  can  make  you  view, 

With  my  paintings  labial, 

Sitting  up  in  awful  row. 

White  old  men  majestica!. 

Mountains,  in  their  gowns  of  snow, 

Ghosts  of  kings  ;  as  my  two  eyes, 

Looking  over  speckled  skies, 

See  them  now.     About  their  knees, 

Half  in  haze,  there  stands  at  ease 

A  great  army  of  green  hi,h. 

Some  bareheaded  ;  and,  behold, 

Small  green  mosses  creep  on  some. 

Those  be  mighty  forests  old  ; 

And  white  avalanches  come 

Through  yon  rents,  where  now  distils 

Sheeny  silver,  pouring  down 

To  a  tune  of  old  renown. 

Cutting  narrow  pathways  through 

Gentian  belts  of  airy  blue, 

To  a  zone  where  starwort  blows, 

And  long  reaches  of  the  rose. 

So,  that  haze  all  left  behind, 
Down  the  chestnut  forests  wind. 
Past  yon  jagged  spires,  where  yet 
Foot  of  man  was  never  set  ; 
Past  a  castle  yawning  wide. 
With  a  great  breach  in  its  side, 
To  a  nest-like  valley,  where. 
Like  a  sparrow's  egg  in  hue, 
Lie  two  lakes,  and  teach  the  true 
Color  of  the  sea-maid's  hair. 

What  beside  ?    The  world  beside ! 
Drawing  down  and  down  to  greet 
Cottage  clusters  at  our  feet,  — 
livery  scent  of  summer  tide,  — 
Flowery  pastures  all  a^low 
(Men  and  women  mowing  go 
Up  and  down  them) ;  also  soft 
Floating  of  the  film  aloft. 
Fluttering  of  the  leaves  alow. 
Is  this  told?     It  is  not  told. 
Where's  the  danger?  where's  the  cold 


Slippery  danger  up  the  steep  ? 
Where  yon  shadow  fallen  asleep? 
Chnping  bird  and  tumbling  spray. 
Light,  work,  laughter,  scent  of  hay. 
Peace,  and  echo,  where  are  they? 

Ah,  they  sleep,  sleep  all  untold; 
Memory  must  their  grace  enfold 
Silently  ;  and  that  high  song 
Of  the  heart,  it  doth  belong 
To  the  hearers      Not  a  v\h;t. 
Though  a  chief  musician  heard, 
Could  he  make  a  tune  for  it. 

Though  a  lute  full  deftly  strung. 
And  the  sweetest  bird  e'er  sung, 
Could  have  tried  it.  —  O,  the  lute 
For  that  wondrous  song  were  mute, 
And  the  bird  would  do  her  part. 
Falter,  fail,  and  break  her  heart,  — 
Break  her  heart,  and  furl  her  wings, 
On  theunexpressive  strings. 


GLADYS    AND    HER    ISLAND. 

{On   the  A  dTantae^es  of  the  Poetical 
Teinperanieut. ) 

AN    IMPERFECT    FABLE  WITH  A  DOUBT- 
FUL  MORAL. 

O  HAPPY  Gladys  !   I  rejoice  with  her, 
For  Gladys  saw  the  island. 

It  was  thus  : 
They  gave  a  day  for  pleasure  in  the 

school 
Where    Gladys    taught ;    and    all   the 

other  girls 
Were  taken  out  to  picnic  in  a  wood. 
But  it  was  said,  "  We  think  it  were  not 

well 
That   little   Gladys  should    acquire   a 

taste 
For  pleasure,  going  about,  and  needless 

change. 
It  would  not  suit  her  station  :  discon- 
tent 
Might  come  of  it ;  and  all  her  duties 

now 


tgo 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


She  does  so  pleasantly,  that  we  were 
best 

To  keep  her  humble."  So  they  said 
to  lier, 

"  Gladys,  we  shall  not  want  you,  all  to- 
day. 

Look,  you  are  free ;  you  need  not  sit  at 
work : 

No,  you  may  take  a  long  and  pleasant 
walk 

Over  the  sea-cliff,  or  upon  the  beach 

Among  the  visitors." 

Then  Gladys  blushed 
For  joy,  and  thanked  them.     What!  a 

holiday, 
A  whole  one,  for  herself!     How  good, 

how  kind ! 
With  that,    the    marshalled   carriages 

drove  off ; 
And  Gladys,  sobered  with  her  weight 

of  joy. 
Stole  out  beyond  tlie  groups  upon  the 

beach  ^_ 
The  children  with  their  wooden  spades, 

the  band 
That  played  for  lovers,  and  the  sunny 

stir 
Of  cheerful   life   and   leisure  —  to   the 

rocks, 
For  tliese  she  wanted  most,  and  there 

was  time 
"  To  mark  them  ;  how  like  ruined  organs 

prone 
They  lay,  or  leaned  their  giant  fluted 

pipes. 
And  let  the  great  white-crested  reckleSs 

wave 
Beat  out  their  booming  melody. 

The  sea 

Was  filled  with  light ;  in  clear  blue 
caverns  curled 

The  breakers,  and  they  ran,  and  seemed 
to  romp, 

As  playing  at  some  rough  and  danger- 
ous game, 

While  all  the  nearer  waves  rushed  in  to 
help. 

And  all  the  farther  heaved  their  heads 
to  peep, 

And  tossed  the  fishing-boats.  Then 
Gladys  laughed, 


And  said,   "  O   happy  tide,   to  be   so 

lost 
In  sunshine,  that  one  dare  not  look  at 

it; 
And  lucky  cliffs,  to  be  so  brown  and 

warm  ; 
And  yet  how  lucky  are  the  shadows, 

too. 
That  lurk  beneath  their  ledges.     It  is 

strange. 
That  in  remembrance   though    I    lay 

them  up. 
They  are    forever,   when   I    come   to 

them, 
Better  than  I  had  thought.     O,  some- 
thing yet 
I  had  forgotten.     Oft  I  say,  '  At  least 
This  picture  is   imprinted ;    thus  and 

thus. 
The  sharpened  serried  jags  run  up,  run 

out. 
Layer  on  layer.'     And  I  look  —  up  — 

High,  higher  up  again,  till  far  aloft 
They  cut  into  their  ether  —  brown,  and 

clear. 
And  perfect.     And  I,  saying,  '  This  is 

mine. 
To    keep,'   retire;    but    shortly   come 

agam, 
And  they  confound  me  with  a  glorious 

change. 
The  low  sun  out  of  rain-clouds  stares  at 

them  ; 
They  redden,  and  their  edges  drip  with 

—  what  ? 
I  know  not,  but  'tis  red.     It  leaves  no 

stain. 
For  the  next  morning  they  stand  up 

like  ghosts 
In   a   sea-shroud,   and  fifty    thousand 

mews 
Sit  there,  in  long  white  files,  and  chat- 
ter on. 
Like  silly  school-girls  in  their  silliest 

mood. 


"  There  is  the  boulder  where  we  always 

turn. 
O,   I  have  longed  to  pass  it ;   now   I 

will. 
What  would  THEY  say?  for  one  must 

slip  and  spring ; 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


191 


'Young  ladies !  Gladys !   I  am  shocked. 

^Iy  dears, 
Decorum,  if  you  please :  turn  back  at 

once- 
Gladys,    we    blame    you    most  ;     you 

should  have  looked 
Before  you.'     Then  they  sigh,  —  how 

kind  they  are  !  — 
'  What  will  become  of  you,  if  all  your 

life 
You  look  a  long  way  off?  —  look  any- 
where. 
And    everywhere,   instead  of  at  your 

feet, 
And  where   they  carry    you ! '       Ah, 

well,  I  know 
It  is  a  pity,"  Gladys  said  ;  "  but  then 
We  cannot  all  be  wise  :  happy  for  me 
That  other  people  are. 

"  And  yet  I  wish,  — 
For  sometimes  very  right  and  serious 

thoughts 
Come  to   me,  —  I    do  wish   that  tliey 

would  come 
When    they    are    wanted! — when    I 

teach  the  sums 
On  rainy  days,  and  when  the  practis- 
ing 
I  count  to,  and  the  din  goes  on  and  on. 
Still  the  same  tune  and  still  the  same 

mistake, 
Then  I  am  wise  enough:  sometimes  I 

feel 
Quite  old.     I  think  that  it  will  last,  and 

say, 
'Now   my  reflections  do    me  credit! 

now 
I   am  a  woman ! '    and    I   wish    they 

knew 
How  serious  all  my  duties  look  to  me. 
And  how  my  heart  hushed  down  and 

shaded  lies. 
Just  like  the  sea,  when  low,  convenient 

clouds 
Come  over,  and  drink  all  its  sparkles 

up. 
But  does  it  last?     Perhaps,   that  very 

'   day. 
The  front  door  opens  :  out  we  walk  in 

pairs ; 
And  I  am  so  delighted  with  this  world, 
That  suddenly  has  grown,  being  new 

washed, 


To  such  a  smiling,  clean,  and  thankful 

world. 
And  with  a  tender  face  shining  through 

tears. 
Looks  up  into  the  sometime  lowering 

sky. 
That  has  been  angry,  but  is  reconciled, 
And  just  forgiving  her,  that  I,  —  that 

I, — 
O,  I  forget  myself:  what  matters  how! 
And  then   I  hear  (but  always  kindly 

said) 
Some  words  that  pain  me  so,  —  but  just, 

but  true : 
'  For  if  your  place  in  this  establishment 
Be  but  subordinate,  and  if  your  birth 
Be  lowly,  it  the  more  behooves  —  Well, 

well. 
No  more.     We  see  that  you  are  sorry-' 

Yes  I 
I  am  always  sorry  then  ;  but  now,  — 

O,  now. 
Here  is  a  bight  more   baautiful  than 

all." 

"  And  did  they  scoM  her,  then,  my 

pretty  one  ? 
And  did  she  want  to  be   as  wise   as 

they,  — 
To  bear  a  bucklered  heart  and  priggish 

mind? 
Ay,  you  may  crow ;  she  did !  but  no, 

no,  no. 
The  night-time  will  not  let  her ;  all  the 

stars 
Say  nay  to  that ;  the  old  sea  laughs  at 

her. 
Why,  Gladys  is  a  child ;  she  has  not 

skill 
To  shut  herself  within  her  own  small 

cell. 
And  build  the  door  up,  and  to   say, 

'  Poor  me  I 
I  am  a  prisoner ; '  then  to  take  hewn 

stones. 
And,  having  built  the  windows  up,  to 

say, 
'O,  it  is  dark!  there  is  no  sunshine 

here  ; 
There  never  has  been.'  " 

Strange!  how  verystringe! 
A  woman  passing  Gladys  with  a  babe, 


igz 


GLADYS  AND  HER    ISLAND. 


To  whom  she  spoke  these  words,  and 

only  looked 
Upon  the  babe,  who  crowed  and  puDed 

her  curls, 
And  never  looked   at    Gladys,    never 

once. 
"  A  simple  child,"  she  added,  and  went 

by, 

"  To  want  to  change  her   greater  for 

their  less ; 
But  Gladys  shall  not  do  it,  no,  not  she  ; 
We    love    her  —  don't    we?  —  far    too 

well  for  that." 

Then  Gladys,  flushed  with  shame  and 

keen  surprise, 
"  How  could  she  be  so  near,  and  I  not 

know? 
And  have   I  spoken  out  my  thought 

aloud? 
I  must  have  done,   forgetting.     It    is 

well 
She  walks  so  fast,  for  I  am  hungry  now, 
And  here  is  water  cantering  down  the 

cliflf. 
And  here  a  shell  to  catch  it  with,  and 

here 
The  round  plump  buns  they  gave  me, 

and  the  fruit. 
Now  she  is  gone  behind  the  rock.     O, 

rare 
To    be    alone !  "     So   Gladys  sat  her 

down. 
Unpacked    her  little   basket,   ate   and 

drank. 
Then  pushed  her  hands  into  the  warm 

drj'  sand. 
And   thought   the    earth    was    happy, 

and  she  too 
Was  going  round  with  it  in  happiness. 
That  holiday.     "  What  was  it  that  she 

said?" 
Quoth  Gladys,  cogitating  ;  "  they  were 

kind. 
The  words  that  woman  spoke.      She 

does  not  know ! 
'  Her  greater  for  their  less,'  — it  makes 

me  laugh,  — 
But  yet,"  sighed  Gladys,   "  though  it 

must  be  good 
To  look  and  to  admire,  one  should  not 

wish 
To  steal  their  virtues,  and  to  put  them 

on. 


Like  feathers  from  another  wing ;  be- 
side, 

That  calm,  and  that  grave  conscious- 
ness of  worth. 

When  all  is  said,  would  little  suit  wth 
me. 

Who  am  not  worthy  When  our 
thoughts  are  born, 

Though  they  be  good  and  humble,  one 
should  mind 

How  they  .ire  reared,  or  some  will  go 
astray 

And  shame  their  mother.  Cain  and 
Abel  both 

Were  only  once  removed  from  inno- 
cence. 

Why  did  I  envy  them  ?  That  was  not 
good ; 

Yet  it  began  with  my  humility." 

But  as  she  spake,  lo,  Gladys  raised  her 

eyes. 
And  right  before  her,  on  the  horizon's 

edge. 
Behold,  an  island!     First,  she  looked 

away 
Along  the   solid  rocks   and    steadfast 

shore. 
For  she  was  all  amazed,  believing  not, 
And  then  she  looked  again,  and  there 

again 
Behold,  an  island !     And  the  tide  had 

turned. 
The  milky  sea  had  got  a  purple  rim. 
And  from  the  rim  that  mountain  island 

rose, 
Purple,    with    two    high    peaks,    the 

northern  peak 
The  higher,  and  with  fell  and  precipice, 
It    ran    down   steeply  to  the   watei^s 

brink ; 
But  all  the  southern  line  was  long  and 

soft. 
Broken  with  tender  curves,  and,  as  she 

thought. 
Covered  with   forest    or  with    sward. 

But,  look ! 
The  sun  was  on  the  island ;    and  he 

showed 
On  either  peak  a  dazzling  cap  of  snow. 
Then  Gladys  held  her  breath  ;  she  said, 

"  Indeed, 
Indeed  it  is  an  island :  how  is  this, 
I  never  saw  it  till  this  fortunate 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


193 


Rare  holiday?"   And  while  she  strained 

her  eyes, 
She  thought  that  it  began  to  fade  ;  but 

not 
To  change  as  clouds  do,  only  to  with- 
draw 
And  meit  into  its  azure  ;  and  at  last, 
Little  by  little,  from  her  hungry  heart. 
That  longed  to  draw  things  marvellous 

to  Itself, 
And  yearned  towards  the  riches  and  the 

great 
Abundance   of  the  beauty   God  hath 

made. 
It  passed  away.    Tears  started  in  her 

eyes, 
And  when  they  dropt,   the   mountain 

isle  was  ^one  ; 
The  careless  sea  had  quite  forgotten  it. 
And  all  was  even  as  it  had  been  before. 

And  Gladys  wept,  but  there  was  luxury 
In  her  self-pity,  while  she  softly  sobbed, 
"  O,  what  a  little  while  !  1  am  afraid 
I  shall  forget  that  purple  mountain  isle. 
The  lovely  hollows  atween  her  snow- 
clad  peaks, 
The  grace  of  her  upheaval  where  she 

lay 
Well  up  against  the  open.  O,  my  heart, 
Now  I  remember  how  this  holiday 
Will  soon  be  done,  and  now  my  life 

goes  on 
Not  fed  ;  and  only  in  the  noonday  walk 
Let  to  look  silently  at  what  it  wants, 
Without  the  power  to  wait  or   pause 

awhile. 
And  iniderstand  and  draw  within  itself 
The  richness  of  the  earth.     A  holiday ! 
How  few  I  have !     I  spend  the  silent 

time 
At  work,  while  all  their  pupils   are 

gone  home, 
And  feel  myself  remote.     They  shine 

apart  ; 
They  are  great  planets,  I  a  little  orb ; 
My  little  orbit  far  within  their  own 
Turns,  and  approaches  not.     But  yet, 

the  more 
I  am  alone  when  those  I  teach  return ; 
For  they,  as  planets  of  some  other  sun. 
Not   mine,    have   paths   that   can  but 

meet  my  ring 
Once  in  a  cycle.     O,  how  poor  I  am ! 


I  have  not  got  laid  up  in  this  blank 
heart 

Any  indulgent  kisses  given  me 

Because  I  had  been  good,  or,  yet  more 
sweet, 

Because  my  childliood  was  itself  a 
good 

Attractive  thing  for  kisses,  tender 
praise, 

And  comforting.  An  orphan-school  at 
best 

Is  a  cold  mother  in  the  winter  time 

(*Twas  mostly  winter  when  new  or- 
phans came). 

An  unregardful  mother  in  the  spring. 

"  Yet  once  a  year  (I  did  mine  wrong) 

we  went 
To  gather  cowslips.     Hov/  we  thought 

on  it 
Beforehand,   pacing,    pacing   the  dull 

street. 
To  that  one  tree,  the  only  one  we  saw 
From  April,  —  if  the  cowslips  were  in 

bloom 
So   early ;    or,    if    not,    from    opening 

M.iy 
Even  to  September.    Then  there  came 

the  feast 
At  Epping.     If  it  rained  that  day,  it 

rained 
For  a  whole  year  to  us  ;  we  could  not 

think 
Of  fields  and  hawthorn  hedges,  and  the 

leaves 
Fluttering,  but  still  it  rained,  and  ever 

rained. 

"  Ah,  well,  but  I  am  here  ;  but  I  have 

seen 
The  gay  gorse  bushes  in  their  flowering 

time  ; 
I  know  the  scent  of  bean-fields ;  I  have 

heard 
The  satisfying  murmur  of  the  main."      ^_ 

The  woman !  she  came  round  the  rock 

again 
With  her  fair  baby,  and  she  sat  her 

down 
By  Gladys,  murmuring,  "  Who  forbade 

the  grass 
To  grow  by  visitations  of  the  dew  ? 


194 


GLADYS  AND  HER    ISLAND. 


Who  said  in  ancient  time  to  the  desert 

pool, 
'Thou  shalt  not  wait  for  angel  visitors 
To  trouble  thy  still  water  ? '     Must  we 

bide 
At  home  ?    The  lore,  beloved,  shall  fly 

to  us 
On  a  pair   of  sumptuous  wings.     Or 

may  we  breathe 
Without  ?    O,  we  shall  draw  to  us  the 

air 
That  times  and  mystery  feed  on.    This 

shall  lay 
Unchidden  hands  upon  the  heart  o'  the 

world, 
And  feel  it  beating.    Rivers  shall  run 

on. 
Full  of  sweet   language  as  a  lover's 

mouth. 
Delivering  of  a  tune  to  make  her  youth 
More  beautiful  than  wheat  when  it  is 

green. 

"What  else?  —  (O,   none   shall   en\'j' 

her  I)     The  rain 
And  the  wild  weather  will  be  most  her 

own. 
And  talk  with  her  o'  nights ;  and  if  the 

winds 
Have  seen  aught  wondrous,  they  will 

tell  it  her 
In  a  mouthful  of  strange  moans,  —  will 

bring  from  far, 
Her  ears  being  keen,  the  lowing  and 

the  mad. 
Masterful  tramping  of  the  bison  herds. 
Tearing    down    headlong    with    their 

bloodshot  eyes, 
In  savage  rifts  of  hair ;  the  crack  and 

creak 
Of  ice-floes  in  the  frozen  sea,  the  cry 
Of  the  white  bears,  all  in  a  dim  blue 

world 
Mumbling  their  meals  by  twilight ;  or 

the  rock 
And  majesty  of  motion,  .when  their 

heads 
Primeval  trees  toss  in  a  sunny  storm, 
And  hail  their  nuts  down  on  unweeded 

fields. 
No  holidays,"  quoth  she ;  "drop,  drop, 

O,  drop. 
Thou  tired    skylark,    and    go    up    no 

more ; 


You  lime-trees,   cover  not   your  head 

with  bees. 
Nor  give  out  your  good  smell.      She 

will  not  look ; 
No,  Gladys  cannot  draw  your  sweet- 
ness in. 
For  lack   of    holidays."      So    Gladys 

thought, 
"  A  most  strange  woman,  and  she  talks 

of  me." 
With  that  a  girl  ran  up:  "Mother," 

she  said, 
"  Come  out  of  this  brown  bight,  I  pray 

you  now. 
It  smells  of  fairies-"     Gladys  thereon 

thought, 
"  The   mother  will   not  speak  to  me, 

perhaps 
The   daughter  may,"    and  asked   her 

courteously, 
"  What  do  the  fairies  smell  of?"  But 

the  girl 
With  peevish  pout  replied,  "  You  know, 

you  know." 
"Not  I,"  said  Gladys;  then  she  an- 
swered her, 
"  Something    like    buttercups.       But, 

mother,  come. 
And  whisper  up  a  porpoise  from  the 

foam. 
Because  I  want  to  ride." 

Full  slowly,  then, 
The  mother  rose,  and  ever  kept  her 

eyes 
Upon  her  little  child.     "You  freakish 

maid," 
Said  she,  "  now  mark  me,  if  I  call  you 

one. 
You  shall  not  scold  nor  make  him  take 

you  far." 

"  I  only  want  —  you  know  I  only 
want," 

The  girl  replied  —  "  to  go  and  play 
awhile 

Upon  the  sand  by  Lagos."  Then  she 
turned 

And  muttered  low,  "Mother,  is  this 
the  girl 

Who  saw  the  island?"  But  the  mo- 
ther frowned. 

"When  may  she  go  to  it?"  the 
daughter  asked. 


GLADYS  AND  HER   ISLAND. 


'95 


And  Gladys,  following  them,  gave  all 
her  mind 

To  hear  the  answer.  "  When  she  wills 
to  go ; 

For  yonder  comes  to  shore  the  ferry- 
boat." 

Then  Gladys  turned  to  look,  and  even 
so 

It  was  ;  a  ferry-boat,  and  far  away 

Ke.xred  in  the  offing,  lo,  the  purple 
peaks 

Of  her  loved  island. 


Then  she  raised  her  arms, 
And  ran  toward  the  boat,  crying  .out, 

"  O  rare, 
The  island!  fair  befall  the  island  ;  let 
Me  reach  the  island."     And  she  sprang 

on  board. 
And  after  her  stepped  in  the  freakish 

maid 
And  the  fair  mother,  brooding  o'er  her 

child; 
And  this  one  took  the  helm,  and  that 

let  go 
The  sail,  and  off  they  flew,  and  fur- 
rowed up 
A  flaky  hill  before,  and  left  behind 
A   sobbing,  snake-like   tail  of  creamy 

foam ; 
And  dancing  hither,  thither,  sometimes 

shot 
Toward  the  island;  then,  when  Gladys 

looked, 
Were  leaving  it  to  leeward.     And  the 

maid 
Whistled  a  wind  to  come  and  rock  the 

craft. 
And  would  be  leaning  down  her  head 

to  mew 
At  cat-fish,  then  lift  out  into  her  lap 
And  dandle  baby-seals,  which,  having 

kissed. 
She  flung  to  their  sleek  mothers,  till 

her  own 
Rebuked   her  in   good   English,  after 

cried. 
Luff,   luff,   we   shall   be   swamped." 

"  I  will  not  luff," 
.Sobbed   the   fair   mischief;    "you  are 

cross  to  me." 
For  shame!"  the  mother  shrieked; 

"luff,  luff,  my  dear  ; 


Kiss  and  be  friends,  and  thou  shalt  have 

the  fish 
With  the  curly  tail  to  ride  on."     So  she 

did. 
And    presently,    a    dolphin    bouncmg 

up. 
She  sprang  upon  his  slippery  back,  — 

"  P'arewell," 
She  laughed,  was  off,  and  all  the  sea 

grew  calm. 


Then  Gladys  was  much  happier,  and 
was  'ware 

In  the  smooth  weather  that  this  woman 
talked 

Like  one  in  sleep,  and  murmured  cer- 
tain thoughts 

Which  seemed  to  be  like  echoes  of  her 
own. 

She  nodded,  "  Yes,  the  girl  is  going 
now 

To  her  own  island.  Gladys  poor  ?  Not 
she  ! 

Who  thinks  so?  Once  I  met  a  man  in 
white. 

Who  said  to  me,  '  The  thing  that  might 
have  been 

Is  called,  and  questioned  why  it  hath 
not  been  ; 

And  can  it  give  good  reason,  it  is  set 

Beside  the  actual,  and  reckoned  in 

To  fill  the  empty  gaps  of  life.'  Ah, 
so 

The  possible  stands  by  us  ever  fresh. 

Fairer  than  aught  which  any  life  hath 
owned. 

And  makes  divine  amends.  Now  this 
was  set 

Apart  from  kin,  and  not  ordained  a 
home  ; 

An  equal ;  —  and  not  suffered  to  fence 
in 

A  little  plot  of  earthly  good,  and  say, 

'Tis  mine  ;  but  in  bereavement  of  the 
part, 

O,  yet  to  taste  the  whole,  —  to  under- 
stand 

The  grandeur  of  the  story,  not  to  feel 

Satiate  with  good  possessed,  but  ever- 
more 

A  healthful  hunger  for  the  great  idea, 

The  beauty  and  the  blessedness  of 
life. 


196 


GLADYS  AND  HER   ISLAND. 


"  Lo,   now,  the  shadow!"  quoth  she, 

breaking  off, 
"  We  are  in  the  shadow."     Then  did 

Gladys  turn. 
And,  O,  the  mountain  with  the  purple 

peaks 
Was  Close  at  hand.     It  cast  a  shadow 

out, 
And  they  were  in  it :  and  she  saw  the 

snow. 
And  under  that  the  rocks,  and  under 

that 
The  pines,  and  then   the  pasturage ; 

and  saw 
Numerous  dips,  and  undulations  rare. 
Running  down  seaward,  ail  astir  with 

hthe 
Long  canes,  and  lofty  feathers  ;  for  the 

palms 
And  spice-trees  of  the  south,  nay,  every 

growth, 
Meets  m  that  island. 


So  that  woman  ran 
The  boat  ashore,  and  Gladys  set  her 

foot 
Thereon.  Then  all  at  once  much  laugh- 
ter rose  ; 
Invisible  folks  set  up  exultant  shouts, 
"  It  all  belongs  to  Gladys  ; "  and  she 

ran 
And  hid  herself  among  the  nearest  trees 
And  panted,  shedding  tears. 

So  she  looked  round, 
And  saw  that  she  was  in   a  banyan 

grove, 
Full  of  wild  peacocks,  —  pecking  on  the 

grass, 
A  flickering  mass  of  eyes,  blue,  green, 

and  gold, 
Or  reaching  out  their  jewelled  necks, 

where  high 
They  sat  in  rows  along  the  boughs.    No 

tree 
Cumbered  with  creepers  let   the   sun- 
shine through, 
But  it  was  caught  in  scarlet  cups,  and 

poured 
From  these  on  amber  tufts  of  bloom, 

and  dropped 
Lower  on   azure  stars.    The   air  was 

still, 


As  if  awaiting  somewhat,  or  asleep, 
And   Gladys  was  the  oujy   thing  that 

moved. 
Excepting  —  no,  they  were  not  birds  — 

what  then  ? 
Glorified  rainbows  with  a  living  soul  ? 
While  they  passed  through  a  suubeam 

they  were  seen. 
Not  otherwhere,  but  they  were  present 

yet 
In  shade.     They  were-  at  work,  pome- 
granate fruit 
That    lay     about     removing,  —  purple 

grapes. 
That   clustered  in  the  path,    clearing 

aside. 
Through  a  small  spot  of  light  would 

pass  and  go 
The  glorious  happy  mouth  and  two  fair 

eyes 
Of  somewhat  that  made  rustlings  where 

it  went  ; 
But    when   a  beam  would  striKe   the 

ground  sheer  down, 
Behold  them  !  they  had  w  ings,  and  they 

would  pass 
One  after  other  with  the  sheeny  fans, 
Bearing  them  slowly,  that  their  hues 

were  seen. 
Tender    as    russet    crimson    dropt   on 

snows. 
Or  where  ihey  turned  flashing  with  gold 

and  dashed 
With   purple  glooms.     And  they  had 

feet,  but  these 
Did  barely  touch  the  ground.    And  they 

took  heed 
Not  to  disturb  the  waiting  quietness  ; 
Nor  rouse  up  fawns,  that  slept  beside 

their  dams ; 
Nor  the  fair  leopard,  with  her  sleek 

paws  laid 
Across   her   little    drowsy    cubs;   .nor 

swans. 
That,    floating,    slept   upon    a  glassy 

pool ; 
Nor  rosy  cranes,  all  slumbering  in  the 

reeds. 
With  heads  beneath  their  wings.     For 

this,  you  know, 
Was  Eden.     She  was  passing  through 

the  trees 
That  made  a  ring  about  it,   and  she 

caught 


GLADYS  AND  HER   ISLAND. 


197 


A  glimpse  of  glades  beyond.     All  she 

had  seeii 
Was  nothing  to  them  ;  but  words  are 

not  made  , 
To  tell  that  tale.     No  wind  was  let  to 

blow, 
And  ail  the  doves  were  bidden  to  hold 

their  peace. 
Why  ?     One  was  working  in  a  valley 

near, 
And  none  might  look  that  way.     It  was 

understood 
That  He  had  nearly  ended   that   His 

work ; 
For  two  shapes  met,  and  one  to  other 

spake, 
Accosting    him    with,    "  Prince,    what 

worketh  He?" 
Who  whispered,  "Lo!  He  fashioneth 

red  clay." 
And  all  at  once  a  little  trembling  stir 
Was  felt  in  the  earth,  and  every  creat- 
ure woke, 
And  laid  its  head  down,  listening.     It 

was  known 
Then  that  the  work  was  done  ;  the  new- 
made  king 
Had  risen,  and  set  his  feet  upon  his 

realm, 
And  it  acknowledged  him. 

But  in  her  path 

Came  soma  one  that  withstood  her,  and 
he  said, 

"  What  doest  thou  here  ? "  Then  she 
did  turn  and  flee. 

Among  those  colored  spirits,  through 
the  grove. 

Trembling  for  haste  ;  it  was  not  well 
with  her 

Till  she  came  forth  of  those  thick  ban- 
yan trees, 

And  set  her  feet  upon  the  common 
grass, 

And  felt  the  common  wind. 

Yet  once  beyond, 
She  could  not  choose  but  cast  a  back- 
ward glance. 
The  lovely  matted  growth  stood  like  a 

wall. 
And  means  of  entering  were  not  evi- 
dent, — 


The    gap   had   closed.     But   Gladys 
laughed  for  joy  ; 

She  said,    "  Keniuteness  and  a  multi- 
tude 

Of  years    are    counted   nothing   here. 
Beho.d, 

To-day   1   have  been  in  Eden.     O,  it 
blooms 

In  my  own  island." 


And  she  wandered  on. 
Thinking,  imtil  she  reached  a  place  of 

palms. 
And  all  the  earth  was  sandy  where  she 

walked,  — 
Sandy  and  dry,  —  strewed  with  papy- 
rus-leaves. 
Old  idols,   rings  and  pottery,  painted 

lids 
Of  mummies  (for  perhaps  it  was  the 

way 
That  leads  to   dead    old   Egypt),    and 

withal 
Excellent  sunshine  cut  out  sharp  and 

clear 
The  hot  prone  pillars,  and  the  carven 

plinths,  — 
Stone  lotos  cups,  with  petals  dipped  in 

sand, 
And  wicked  gods,  and  sphinxes  bland, 

who  sat 
And  smiled  upon  the  ruin.      O,   how 

still ! 
Hot,  blank,  illuminated  with  the  clear 
Stare   of  an   unveiled   sky.      The   dry 

stiff  leaves 
Of  palm-trees  never  rustled,  and  the 

soul 
Of    that   dead   ancientry  was  itself 

dead. 
She  was  above  her  ankles  in  the  sand. 
When  she  beheld  a  rocky  road,  and, 

lo! 
It  bare  in  it  the  ruts  of  chariot  wheels. 
Which  erst  had  carried  to  their  pagan 

prayers 
The  brovvTi  old  Pharaohs  ;  for  the  ruts 

led  on 
To  a  great  cliff,  that  either  was  a  cliff 
Or    some    drend    shrine    in    ruins, — 

liartly  reared 
In  front  of  that  same  cliff,  and  partly 

hewn 


igl 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


Or  excavate  within  its  heart.  Great 
heaps 

Of  sand  and  stones  Qn  either  side  there 
lay; 

And,  as  the  girl  drew  on,  rose  out  from 
each, 

As  from  a  ghostly  kennel,  gods  unblest, 

Dog-headed,  and  behind  them  wingid 
things 

Like  angels ;  and  this  carven  multi- 
tude 

Hedged  in,  to  right  and  left,  the  rocky 
road. 

At  last,  the  cliff,  — and  in  the  cliff  a 
door 

Yawning :  and  she  looked  in,  as  down 
the  throat 

Of  some  stupendous  giant,  and  beheld 

No  floor,  but  wide,  worn  flights  of 
steps,  that  led 

Into  a  dimness.  When  the  eyes  could 
bear 

That  change  to  gloom,  she  saw,  flight 
after  fliglit. 

Flight  after  flight,  the  worn,  long  stair 
go  down, 

Smooth  with  the  feet  of  nations  dead 
and  gone. 

So  she  did  enter ;  also  she  went  down 

Till  it  was  dark,  and  yet  again  went 
down. 

Till,  gazing  upward  at  that  yawning 
door, 

It  seemed  no  larger,  in  its  height  re- 
mote, 

Than  a  pin's  head.  But  while,  irreso- 
lute, 

She  doubted  of  the  end,  yet  farther 
down 

A  slender  ray  of  lamplight  fell  away 

Along  the  stair,  as  from  a  door  ajar: 

To  this  again  she  felt  her  way,  and 
stepped     . 

Adown  the  hollow  stair,  and  reached 
the  light ; 

But  fear  fell  on  her,  fear ;  and  she  for- 
bore 

Entrance,  and  listened.  Ay!  'twas 
even  so,  — 

A  sigh ;  the  breathing  as  of  one  who 
slept 

And  was  disturbed.  So  she  drew  back 
awhile, 


And  trembled  ;  then  her  doubting 
hand  she  laid 

Against  the  door,  and  pushed  it ;  but 
the  light 

Waned,  faded,  sank ;  and  as  she  came 
within  — 

Hark,  hark!  A  spirit  was  it,  and 
asleep  ? 

A  spirit  doth  not  breathe  like  clay. 
There  hung 

A  cresset  from  the  roof,  and  thence  ap- 
peared 

A  flickering  speck  of  light,  and  dis- 
appeared ; 

Then  dropped  along  the  floor  its  elfish 
flakes. 

That  fell  on  some  one  resting,  in  the 
gloom,  — 

Somewhat,  a  spectral  shadow,  then  a 
shape 

That  loomed.  It  was  a  heifer,  ay,  and 
white, 

Breathing  and  languid  through  pro- 
longed repose. 

Was  it  a  heifer?  all  the  marble  floor 
Was  milk-white  also,  and  the  cresset 

paled, 
And  straight  their  whiteness  grew  con- 
fused and  mixed. 

But  when  the  cresset,  taking  heart, 

bloomed  out,  — 
The    whiteness,  —  and   asleep   again ! 

but  now 
It  was  a  woman,  robed,   and  with   a 

face 
Lovely  and   dim.     And  Gladys  while 

she  gazed 
Murmured,  "O  terrible!     I  am  afraid 
To   breathe   among  these  intermittent 

lives, 
That  fluctuate  in  mystic  solitude, 
And  change  and  fade.     Lo !  where  the 

goddess  sits 
Dreaming  on  her  dim  throne  ;  a  cres- 
cent moon 
She  wears  upon  her  forehead.      Ah ! 

her  frown 
Is  mournful,  and  her  slumber  is  not 

sweet. 
What  dost  thou  hold,  Isis,  to  thy  cold 

breast  ? 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


199 


A  baby  god  with  finger  on  his  lips, 
Asleep,    and    dreaming    of     departed 

sway? 
Thy  son.     Hush,  hush ;  he  knoweth 

all  the  lore 
And   sorcery   of   old   Egypt ;    but   his 

mouth 
He  shuts  ;  the  secret  shall  be  lost  with 

him, 
He  will  not  tell." 

The  woman  coming  down ! 
"Child,   what   art    doing  here?"    the 

woman  said ; 
"  What  wilt  thou  of  Dame  Isis  and  her 

bairn?" 
(Ay,  ay,  we  see  thee  breathing  in  thy 

shroud, — 
Thy  pretty  shroud,  all  frilled  atid/icr- 

betoived. ) 
The   air   is   dim  with   dust   of  spiced 

bones. 
I  mark  a  crypt  down  there.     Tier  upon 

tier 
Of  painted   coffers  fills   it.      What  if 

we, 
Passing,   should   slip,   and   crash   into 

their  midst,  — 
Break  the  frail  ancientry,  and  smoth- 
ered lie. 
Tumbled  among  the  ribs  of  queens  and 

kings. 
And  all  the  gear  they  took  to  bed  with 

them ! 
Horrible !  let  us  hence. 

And  Gladys  said, 
"O,  they  are  rough  to  mount,  those 

stairs;"  but  she 
Took   her  and   laughed,    and   up   the 

mighty  flight 
Shot  like  a  meteor  with  her.     "There," 

said  she  ; 
"The   light   is   sweet  when    one    has 

smelled  of  graves, 
Downin  unholy  heathen  gloom  ;  fare- 
well." 
She  pointed  to  a  gateway,  strong  and 

high. 
Reared  of  hewn  stones ;  but,  look  !  in 

lieu  of  gate, 
There  was  a  glittering  cobweb  drawn 

across, 


And  on  the  lintel  there  were  writ  these 

words : 
"  Ho,  every  one  that  cometh,  I  divide 
What  hath  been  from  what  might  be, 

and  the  line 
Hangeth    before    thee    as    a    spider's 

web ; 
Yet,  wouldst    thou   enter,   thou  must 

break  the  line. 
Or  else  forbear  the  hill." 

The  maiden  said, 
"So,  cobweb,  I  will  break  thee"     And 

she  passed 
Among  some  oak-trees  on  the  farther 

side, 
And  waded  through  the  bracken  round 

their  bolls. 
Until  she  saw  the  open,  and  drew  on 
Toward  the  edge  o'  the  wood,  where  it 

was  mixed 
With  pines  and  heathery  places  wild 

and  fresh. 
Here  she  put  up  a  creature,  that  ran  on 
Before  her,  crying,  "Tint,  tint,  tint," 

and  turned, 
Sat  up,  and  stared  at  her  with  elfish 

eyes, 
Jabbering  of  gramarye,   one   Michael 

Scott, 
The  wizard   that   wonned  somewhere 

underground, 
With  other  talk  enough  to  make  one 

fear 
To  walk  in  lonely  places.     After  passed 
A  man-at-arms,  William  of  Deloraine  ; 
He  shook  his  head,  "An'  if  I  list  to 

tell," 
Quoth  he,  "  I  know,  but  how  it   mat- 
ters not ; " 
Then  crossed  himself,  and  muttered  of 

a  clap 
Of    thunder,  and  a   shape    in  Amice 

gray, 
But  still  it  mouthed  at  him,  and  whim- 
pered, "Tint, 
Tint,    tint."        "There   shall   be  wild 

work  some  day  soon," 
Quoth  he,  "  thou  limb  of  darkness  ;  he 

will  come, 
Thy  master,   push  a  hand  up,  catch 

thee,  imp. 
And  so  good    Christians    shall    have 

peace,  perdie." 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


Theu  GIr.dys  was  so  frightened,  that 
she  ran, 

And  got  away,  towards  a  grassy  down, 

Where  sheep  and  lambs  were  feeding, 
with  a  boy 

To  tend  thcni.  'Twas  the  boy  who 
wears  that  herb 

Called  heart' s-ease  in  his  bosom,  and 
he  sang 

So  sweetly  to  his  flock,  that  she  stole 
on 

Nearer  to  listen.  "  O  Content,  Con- 
tent, 

Give  me,"  sang  he,  "  thy  tender  com- 
pany. 

I  feed  my  flock  among  the  myrtles ; 
all 

My  lambs  are  twins,  and  they  have  laid 
them  down 

Along  the  slopes  of  Beulah.  Come, 
fair  love, 

From  the  other  side  the  river,  where 
their  harps 

Thou  hast  been  helping  them  to  tune. 
O  come. 

And  pitcli  thy  tent  by  mine ;  let  me 
behold 

Thy  mouth,  —  that  even  in  slumber 
talks  of  peace,  — 

Thy  well-set  locks,  and  dove-like  coun- 
tenance." 

And  Gladys  hearkened,  couched  upon 

the  grass. 
Till  she  had  rested  ;  then  did  ask  the 

boy. 
For  it  was  afternoon,  and  she  was  fain 
To  reach  the  shore,   "  Which   is   the 

path,  I  pray, 
That  leads  one  to  the  water?"   But  he 

said, 
"  Dear  lass,  I  only  know  the  narrow 

way. 
The  path  that  leads  one  to  the  golden 

gate 
Across  the  river."     So  she  wandered 

on ; 
And  presently  her  feet  grew  cool,  the 

grass 
Standing  so  high,  and  thyme  being  thick 

and  soft. 
The  air  was  full  of  voices,  and  the  scent 
Of    mountain  blossom    loaded  all   its 

wafts ; 


For  she  was  on  the  slopes  of  a  goodly 

mount. 
And  reared  in  such  a  sort  that  it  looked 

down 
Into  the  deepest  valleys,  darkest  glades. 
And   richest   plains  o'  the  island.     It 

was  set 
Midway  between  the  snows  majestical 
And  a  wide  level,  such  as  men  would 

choose 
For  growing  wheat ;  and  some  one  said 

to  her, 
"  It   is  the  hill   Parnassus."     So   she 

walked 
Yet  on  its  lower  slope,  and  she  could 

hear 
The  calling  of  an  unseen  multitude 
To  some  upon  the  mountain,  "  Give  us 

more ", " 
And  others  said,  "We  are  tired  of  this 

old  world: 
Make  it  look  new  again."     Then  there 

were  some 
Who  answered  lovingly  —  (the  dead  yet 

speak 
From  that  high  mountain,  as  the  living 

do); 
But  others  sang  desponding,  "  We  have 

kept 
The  vision  for  a  chosen  few :  we  love 
Fit  audience  better  than  a  rough  huzza 
From  the  unreasoning  crowd." 

Then  words  came  up  : 
"  There  was  a  time,  you  poets,  was  a 

time 
When    all   the  poetry  was  ours,  and 

made 
By  some  who  climbed  the  mountain 

from  our  midst. 
We  loved  it  then,  we  sang  it  in  our 

streets 
O,  it  grows  obsolete!   Be  you  as  they: 
Our  heroes  die  and  drop  away  from  us  ; 
Oblivion  folds  them'neath  her  dusky 

wing, 
,  Fair   copies   wasted   to  the  hungenng 

world. 
Save  them.     We  fall  so  low  for  lack  of 

them. 
That  many  of  us  think  scorn  of  honest 

trade, 
And  take  no  pride  in  our  own  shops ; 

who  care 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


Only  to  quit  a  calling,  will  not  make 
The   ca.lmg   what   it   might   be :    who 

despise 
Their  worK,  Fate  laughs  at,  and  doth 

let  the  work 
DuU,  and  degrade  them." 

Then  did  Gladys  smile  : 
"  Heroes  !  "  quoth  she  ;    "  yet,  now  I 

think  on  it,  .  ,      , 

There  was  the  jolly  goldsmith,   brave 

Sir  Hugh, 
Certes.  a  hero  ready-made.     Methmks 
I  see  him  burnishing  of  golden  gear. 
Tankard  and  charger,  and  a-muttering 

low, 
'  London  is  thirsty'  —(then  he  weighs  a 

chiin) : 
"Tis  an  ill  thing,  my  masters.     I  would 

give 
The  worth  of  this,  and  many  such  as 

this. 
To  bring  it  water.' 

"  Ay,  and  after  him 
There  came  up  Guy  of  London,  lettered 

son 
O'   the  honest  lighterman.     I'll  think 

on  him, 
Leaning  upon  the  bridge  on  summer 

eves. 
After  his  shop  was  closed :  a  still,  grave 

man, 
With  melancholy  eyes.     '  While  these 

are  hale,' 
He   salth,    when   he   looks   down  and 

marks  the  crowd 
Cheerily    working ;     where    the    river 

marge 
Is  blocked  with  ships  and  boats ;  and 

all  the  whirves 
Swarm,  and  the  cranes  swing  in  with 

merchandise,  — 
'  While  these  are    hale,   'tis  well,   'tis 

very  well. 
But,   O  good  Lord,'   saith  he,   'when 

these  are  sick,  — 
I  fear  me.   Lord,  this  excellent  work- 
manship 
Of  Thine  is  counted  for  a  cumbrance 

then. 
Ay,  ay,   my  hearties  !  many  a  man  of 
you, 


Struck  down,  or  maimed,   or  fevered, 

shrinks  away, 
And,  mastered  in  mat  light  for  lack  of 

aid. 
Creeps  shivering  to  a  corner,  and  there 

dies.' 
Well,  we  have  heard  the  rest. 

"  Ah,  next  I  think 
Upon  the  merchant  captain,   stout   of 

heart 
To  dare  and  to  endure.     '  Robert, '  saith 

he 
(The    navigator    Knox   to   his  manful 

son), 
'  I  sit  a  captive  from  the  ship  detained  ; 
This  heathenry  dolli  let  thee  visit  her. 
Remember,  son,  if  thou,  alas !  shouldst 

fail 
To  ransom  thy  poor  father,  they  are 

free 
As  yet,   the  mariners;   have  wives  at 

home. 
As  I  have  ;  av,  and  liberty  is  sweet 
To  all  men      For  the  ship,  she  is  not 

ours. 
Therefore,  'beseech  thee,  son,  lay  on 

the  mate 
This  my  command,  to  leave  me,  and  set 

sail. 
As  for  thyself  — '    '  Good  father,'  saith 

the  son  ; 
'  I    will  not,  father,  ask  your  blessing 

now, 
Because,  for  fair,  or  else  for  evi',  fate, 
We  two  shall  meet  again.'     And  so  they 

did. 
The  dusky  men,  peeling  off  cinnamon. 
And  beatmg  nutmeg  clusters  from  the 

tree. 
Ransom  and  bribe  contemned.      The 

good  ship  sailed,  — 
The  son  returned  to  share  his  father's 
cell. 

"  O,  there  are  many  such.  Would  I 
had  wit 

Their  worth  to  sing!  "  With  that,  she 
turned  her  feet. 

"  I  am  tired  now,"  said  Glady.s,  "  of 
their  talk 

Around  this  hill  Parnassus."  And,  be- 
hold. 


GLADYS  AND  HER   ISLAND. 


A  piteous  sight,  —  an  oM,  blind,  gray- 
beard  king 
Led  by  a  fool  with  bells.     Now  this  was 

loved 
Of  the  crowd  below  the  hill ;  and  when 

he  called 
For  his  lost  kingdom,  and  bewailed  his 

age. 
And  plauied  on  his  unkind  daughters, 

they  were  known 
To  say,   that  if  the  best  of  gold  and 

gear 
Could  have  bought  him  back  his  king- 
dom, and  made  kind 
The  hard  hearts  which  had  broken  his 

ereivhile. 
They  would  have  gladly  paid  it  from 

their  store. 
Many  times  over.     What  is   done  is 

done, 
No  help.     The  ruined  majesty  passed 

on. 
And,  look  you  !  one  who  met  her  as  she 

walked 
Showed  her  a  mountain  njTnph  lovely 

as  light. 
Her  name  rEnone  ;  and  she  mourned 

and  mourned, 
"O  Mother  Ida,"   and  she  could  not 

cease, 
No,  nor  be  comforted. 

And  after  this, 
Soon    there  came  by,  arrayed  in  Nor- 

min  cap 
And  kirtle,  an  Arcadian  villager. 
Who    said,    "  I    pray   you,    have   you 

chanced  to  meet 
One  Gabriel?"    and  she  sighed;    but 

Gladys  took 
And  kissed  her  hand :  she   could  not 

answer  her. 
Because  she  guessed  the  end. 


With  that  it  drew 
and  as  Gladys  wandered 


To  evening 


In  the  calm  weather,  she  beheld  the 

wave. 
And  she  ran  down  to  set  her  feet  again 
On  the  sea-margin,  which  was  covered 

thick 
With  white  shell-skeletons.      The  sky 

was  red 


As  wine.      The  water  played  among 

bare  r.bs 
Of  many  wrecks,   that  lay  half-buried 

there 
In   the   sand.     She   saw  a   cave,    and 

moved  thereto 
To  ask  her  way,  and  one  so  innocent 
Came  out  to  meet  her,  that,  with  mar- 

veLing  mute, 
She  gazed  and  gazed  into  her  sea-blue 

eyes. 
For    in    them    beamed    the    untaught 

ecstasy 
Of  childhood,  that  lives  on  though  youth 

be  come. 
And  love  just  born. 

She   could  not   choose  but  name   her 

shipwrecked  prince, 
All  blushing.     She  told  Gladys  many 

things 
That  are  not  in  the  "story,  —  things,  in 

sooth,  [now 

That  Prospero  her  father  knew.     But 
Twas  evening,  and  the  sun  dropped ; 

purple  stripes 
In   the   sea   were    copied   from    some 

clouds  that  lay 
Out   in  the  west.      And  lo!  the  boat, 

and  more, 
The  freakish  thing  to  take  fair  Gladys 

home 
She  mowed  at  her,  but  Gladys  took  the 

helm : 
"  Peace,  peace  !  "  she  said  ;  "  be  good  : 

you  shall  not  steer, 
For  I  am  your  liege  lady."     Then  she 

sang 
The   sweetest   song  she  knew   all  the 

way  home. 

So  Gladys  set  her  feet  upon  the  sand  ; 
While  in  the  sunset  glory  died  away 
The  peaks  of  that  blest  island. 

"  Fare  you  well, 
My  country,  my  own  kingdom,"  then 

she  said, 
"Till  I  go  visit  you  again,  farewell." 

She  looked  toward  their  house  with 
whom  she  dwelt,  — 

The  carriages  were  coming.  Hasten- 
ing up, 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


She  was  in  time  to  meet  them  at  the 

door, 
And  lead  the  sleepy  little  ones  within  ; 
And   some   were   cross   and   shivered, 

and  her  dames 
Were  weary  and  right  hard  to  please  ; 

but  she 
Felt  like  a  beggar  suddenly  endowed 
With  a  warm  cloak  to  'fend  her  from 

the  cold. 
"  For,  come  what  will,"  she  said,    "I 

had  i 0-day. 
There  is  an  island." 


THE    MORAL. 

What   is   the    moral  ?      Let   us    think 

awhile, 
Taking  the  editorial  We  to  help, 
It  sounds  respectable. 

The  moral ;  yes. 
We  always  read,  when  any  fable  ends, 
"  Hence   we   may   learn."      A    moral 

must  be  found. 
What  do  you  think  of  this:   "Hence 

we  may  learn 
That  dolphins  swim  about  the  coast  of 

Wales, 
And  Admiralty  maps  should   now  be 

drawn 
By  teacher-girls,  because  their  sight  is 

keen, 
And  they  can  spy   out  islands."     Will 

that  do  ? 
No,  that  is  far  too  plain,  — too  evident. 

Perhaps  a  general  moralizing  vein  — 

( We  know  we  have  a  happy  knack  that 
way. 

We  have  observed,  moreover,  that 
young  men 

Are  fond  of  good  advice,  and  so  are 
girls  ; 

Especially  of  that  meandering  kind 

Which,  winding  on  so  sweetly,  treats 
of  all 

They  ought  to  be  and  do  and  think  and 
wear. 

As  one  may  say,  from  creeds  to  com- 
forters. 


Indeed,  we  much  prefer  that  sort  our- 
selves. 
So  soothing).   Good,  a  moralizing  vein  : 
That  is  the  thing ;  but  how  to  manage 

it? 
"Hence  ive  may  learn^''  if  we  be  so 

inclined, 
That  life  goes  best  with  those  wlio  take 

it  best  ; 
That  wit  can  spin  from  work  a  golden 

robe 
To  queen  it  in  ;  that  who  can  paint  at 

will 
A   private  picture-gallery,  should    not 

cry 
For  shillings   that  will   let  him  in  to 

look 
At  some  by  others  painted.     Further- 
more, 
Hence  we  may  learn,  you  poets  —  {jiiid 

we  count 
For  poeis  all  who  ever  felt  that  such 
They  were,  and  all  who  secretly  have 

known 
That  such  they  could  be ;    ay,   tnore- 

over,  all 
Who  wind  the  robes  of  ideality 
About  the  bareness  of  tlieir  lives,  and 

hang 
Comfottitig  curtains,  k}iit  of  fancy'' s 

yarn. 
Nightly  betzuixt  them  and  the  frosty 

ivorld),  — 
Hence  we  may  learn,  you  poets,  that 

of  all 
We    should   be   most    content.      The 

earth  is  given 
To  us  :  we  reign  by  virtue  of  a  sense 
Which  lets  us  hear  the  rhythm  of  that 

old  verse, 
The  ring  of  that  old  tune  whereto  she 

spins. 
Humanity  is  given  to  us :  we  reign 
By  virtue  of  a  sense  which  lets  us  in 
To  know  its  troubles  ere  they  have  been 

told. 
And  take  them  home  and  lull  them  into 

rest 
With    mournfullest   music.      Time    is 

given  to  us,  — 
Time   past,   time  future.     Who,   good 

sooth,  beside 
Have  seen   it  well,  have  walked  this 

empty  world 


204 


SOXGS    WITH  PRELUDES. 


When    slie   went  steaming,  and    from 

pulpy  hills 
Have   marked   the    spurting    of    their 

flamy  crowns  ? 

Have    not  we    seen  the  tabernacle 
pitched, 
And  peered  between  the  linen  curtains, 

blue, 
Purple,    and  scarlet,    at    the   dimness 

there. 
And,  frighted,  have  not  dared  to  look 

again  ? 
But,    quaint    antiquity !     beheld,     we 

thought, 
A  chest  that  might  have  held  the  manna 

pot. 
And  Aaron's  rod  that  budded.     Ay,  we 

leaned 
Over  the  edge  of  Britain,  while  the  fleet 
Of  Caesar  loomed  and  neared  ;    then, 

afterwards. 
We  saw  fair  Venice  looking  at  herself 
In  the  glass  below  her,  while  her  Doge 

went  forth 
In  all  his  bravery  to  the  wedding. 

This, 
However,   counts  for   nothing   to  the 

grace 
We  wot  of  in  time  future :  —  therefore 

add. 
And  afterwards  have  done  :     "  Hence 

we  inay  Icarn^^ 
That  though  it  be  a  grand  and  comely 

tiling 
To  ba  unhappy —  (and  we  thmk  it  is. 
Because  so    many  grand    and    clever 

folk 
Have  found  out  reasons  for  unhappi- 

ness. 
And    talked    about     uncomfortable 

things,  — 
Low  motives,  bores,   and  shams,  and 

hollowness. 
The  hollowness  o'  the  world,  till  we  at 

last 
Have  scarcely  dared  to  jump  or  stamp, 

for  fear. 
Being  so  hollow,  it  should  break  some 

day. 
And  let  us  in),  —  yet,  since  we  are  not 

grand, 


O,  not  at  all,  and  as  for  cleverness. 
That  may  be  or  may  not  be,  —  it  is  well 
For  us  to  be  as  happy  as  we  can  ! 

Agreed  ;  and  with  a  word  to  the  nobler 

sex. 
As  thus :  We  pray  you  carry  not  your 

guns 
On  the  full  cock  ;  we  pray  you  set  your 

pride 
In    its    proper    place,   and    never    be 

ashamed 
Of  any  honest  calling,  —  let  us  add. 
And  end  :  For  all  the  rest,  hold  up  your 

heads 
And  mind  your  English. 


SONGS  WITH   PRELUDES. 


WEDLOCK. 

The  sun  was  streaming  in  :    I  woke, 

and  said, 
"Where   is   my  wife,  —  that  has  been 

made  my  wife 
Only  this  year?"     The  casement  stood 

ajar: 
I  did  but  lift  my  head :  The  pear-tree 

dropped. 
The    great    white    pear-tree    dropped 

with  dew  from  leaves 
And  blossom,  under  heavens  of  happy 

blue. 

My  wife  had  wakened  first,  and  had 
gone  down 

Into  the  orchard.  All  the  air  was 
calm  ; 

Audible  humming  filled  it.  At  the 
roots 

Of  peony  bushes  lay  in  rose-red  heaps. 

Or  snowv,  fallen  bloom.  Tlie  crag-like 
hills 

Were  tossing  down  their  silver  messen- 
gers. 

And  two  brown  foreigners,  called  cuck- 
oo-l:  irds, 


SONGS    WITH  PRELUDES. 


205 


Gave  them  good  answer  :  all  things  else 

were  mute  ; 
An  idle  world  lay  listening  to  their  talk, 
They  had  it  to  themselves, 

Wh:it  alls  my  wife  ? 
I  know  not  if  aught  ails  her ;   though 

her  step 
Tell  of  a  conscious  quiet,  lest  I  wake. 
She  moves  atween  the  almond-boughs, 

and  bends 
One   thick  with  bloom  to  look  on  it. 

"O  love! 
A  little  while  thou  hast  withdrawn  thy- 
self, 
At    unaware    to    think    thy    thoughts 

alone : 
How  sweet,    and    yet   pathetic  to  my 

heart 
The   reason.     Ah!    thou  art  no  more 

thine  own. 
Mine,   mine,    O   love!      Tears  gather 

'neath  my  lids,  — 
Sorrowful  tears  for  thy  lost  liberty. 
Because  it  was  so  sweet.     Thy  liberty. 
That  yet,    O   love,   thou  wouldst  not 

have  again 
No  ;  all  is  right.     But  who  can  give,  or 

bless, 
Or  take   a  blessing,  but  there  comes 

withal 
Some  pain?" 

She  walks  beside  the  lily  bed. 
And  holds  apart  her  gown  ;  she  would 

not  hurt 
The  leaf-enfolded  buds,  that  have  not 

looked 
Yet  on  the  daylight.     O,  thy  locks  are 

brown,  — 
Fairest  of  colors !  —  and  a  darker  brown 
The   beautiful,    dear,    veiled,    modest 

eyes. 
A  bloom  as  of  blush-roses  covers  her 
Forehead,     and     throat,    and    cheek. 

Health  breathes  with  her. 
And  graceful  vigor.    Fair  and  wondrous 

soul ! 
To  think  that  thou  art  mine! 

My  wife  came  in, 
And  moved  into  the  chamber.     As  for 
me, 


I  heard,   but  lay  as  one  that  nothing 

hears. 
And  feigned  to  be  asleep. 


The  racing  river  leaped  and  sang 
Full  blithely  in  the  perfect  weather. 

All  round  the  mountain  echoes  rang, 
For   blue   and  green   were  glad  to- 
gether. 


This  rained  out  light  from  every  part, 
And  that   with   songs   of    joy   was 
thrilling ; 
But,  in  the  hollow  of  my  heart. 
There   ached  a  place   that  wanted 
filling. 


Before  the  road  and  river  meet. 
And   stepping-stones  are   wet  and 
glisten, 

I  heard  a  soiuul  of  laughter  sweet. 
And  paused  to  like  it,  and  to  listen. 


I  heard  the  chanting  waters  flow. 
The  cushat's  note,  the  bee's  low 
humming,  — 
Then  turned  the  hedge,   and  did   not 
know  — 
How  could  I  ?  —  that  my  time  was 
coming. 


A  girl  upon  the  nighest  stone. 

Half  doubtful  of  the  deed,  was  stand- 
ing, 
So  far  the  shallow  flood  had  flown 
Beyond  the  'customed  leap  of  land- 
ing. 


She  knew  not  any  need  of  me, 
Yet  me  she  waited  all  unweeting ; 

We  thought  not  I  had  crossed  the  sea, 
And  half  the  sphere  to  give  her  meet- 
ing. 


2o6 


SOJ^GS   WITH  PRELUDES. 


I  waded  out,  her  eyes  I  met, 

I    wished    the    moments    had   been 
hours  ; 
I  took  her  in  my  arms,  and  set 

Her  dainty  feet  among  the  flowers. 


Her  fellow-maids  in  copse  and  lane. 
Ah!    still,   methinks,  1  hear  them 
calhng ; 

The  wind's  soft  whisper  in  the  plain, 
The  ctishat's  coo,  the  water's  falling. 


But  now  it  is  a  year  ago, 

But  now  possession  crowns  endeavor ; 
I  took  her  \\\  my  heart,  to  grow 

And  fill  the  hollow  place  forever. 


REGRET. 

O  THAT  word  Regret! 

There  have  been  nights  and  morns 
when  we  have  sighed, 

"  Let  us  alone,  Regret !  We  are  con- 
tent 

To  throw  thee  all  our  past,  so  thou  wilt 
sleep 

For  aye."  But  it  is  patient,  and  it 
wakes ; 

It  hath  not  learned  to  cry  itself  to  sleep. 

But  plaineth  on  the  bed  that  it  is  hard. 

We  did  amiss  when  we  did  wish  it  gone 
And  over :  sorrows  humanize  our  race  ; 
Tears  are  the  showers  that  fertilize  this 

world ; 
And  memorj'  of  things  precious  keepeth 

wami 
The  heart  that  once  did  hold  them. 

They  are  poor 
That    have    lost    nothing;     they    are 

poorer  far 
Who,    losing,    have     forgotten ;    they 

most  poor 
Of  all,  who  lose  and  wish  they  might 

forget. 


For  life  is  one,   and  in  its  warp  and 

woof 
There  runs  a  thread  of  gold  that  glitters 

fair. 
And  sometimes  in  the  pattern   shows 

most  sweet 
Where  there  are  sombre  colors.    It  is 

true 
That  we    have   wept.      But    O!    this 

thread  of  gold. 
We  would  not  have  it  tarnish ;  let  us 

turn 
Oft  and  look  back  upon  the  wondrous 

web. 
And   when   it   shineth    sometimes    we 

shall  know 
That  memory  is  possession. 


When  I  remember  something  which  I 

had. 
But  which  is  gone,  and  I  must  do 

without, 
I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  can  be  glad, 
Even  in  cowslip  time  when  hedges 

sprout ; 
It  makes  me  sigh  to  think  on  it,  —  but 

yet 
My  days  will  not  be  better  days,  should 

I  forget. 


When  I  remember  something  promised 

me. 
But  which  I  never  had,  nor  can  have 

now. 
Because  the  promiser  we  no  more  see 
In  countries  that  accord  with  mortal 

vow ; 
When    I  remember  this,   I  mourn,  — 

but  yet 
My  happier  days  are  not  the  days  when 

I  forget. 


LAMENTATION. 

I  READ  upon  that  book. 
Which  down  the  golden  gulf  doth  let 

us  look 
On  the  sweet  days  of  pastoral  majesty ; 

I  read  upon  that  book 


SOJVGS   WITH    PRELUDES. 


How,  when  the  Shepherd  Prince  did 

flee 
(Red  Esau's  twin),  he  desolate  took 
The  stone  for  apillow  :  then  he  fell  on 

sleep. 
And    lo !  there    was   a    ladder.      Lo ! 

there  hung 
A  ladder  from   the   star-place,  and  it 

clung 
To  the  earth  :  it  tied  her  so  to  heaven ; 

and  O ! 
There  fluttered  wings ; 
Then  were  ascending  and   descending 

things 
That  stepped  to  him  where  he  lay 

low  ; 
Then  up  the  ladder  would  a-driftinggo 
(This  feathered  brood  of  heaven),  and 

show 
Small  as  white  flakes  in  winter  that  are 

blown 
Together,  underneath  the  great  white 

throne. 

When  I  had  shut  the  book,  I  said  : 
"  Now,  as  for  me,  my  dreams  upon  my 
bed 
Are  not  like  Jacob's  dream  ; 
Yet  I  have  got  it  in  my  life  ;  yes,  I, 
And   many  more :   it  doth  not  us  be- 
seem, 
Therefore,  to  sigh. 
Is  there  not  hung  a  ladder  in  our  sky  ? 
Yea ;    and,  moreover,  all   the  way  up 

on  high 
Is  thickly  peopled  with  the  prayers  of 
men. 
We  have  no  dream !     What  then  ? 
Like  winged  waj'farers  the  height  they 

scale 
(By   Him  that   offers  them  they  shall 
prevail)  — 
The  prayers  of  men. 
But  where  is  found  a  prayer  for  me  ; 

How  should  I  pray? 
My  heart  is  sick,  and  full  of  strife. 
I   heard   one    whisper   with  departing 

breath, 
'  Suffer  us  not,  for  any  pains  of  death, 

To  fall  from  Thee.'  [life  ! 

But  O,  the  pains  of  life  !  the  pains  of 
There  is  no  comfort  now,  and  naught 
to  win, 
But  yet,  —  I  will  begin." 


"  Preserve  to  me  my  wealth,"  I  do  not 
say. 
For  that  is  wasted  away  ; 

And  much  of   it  was  cankered   ere  it 
went. 

"  Preserve  to  me  my  health,"  I  cannot 
say, 
For  that,  upon  a  day, 

Went   after  other  delights  to   banish- 
ment. 


What  can  I  pray?     "  Give  me  forget- 
fulness  "  ? 
No,  I  would  still  possess 

Past     away    smiles,    though     present 
fronts  be  stern. 

"  Give  me  again  my  kindred"  ?     Nay ; 
not  so. 
Not  idle  prayers.     We  know 

They  that  have  crossed  the  river  can- 
not return. 


I  do  not  pray,  "  Comfort  me!   comfort 
me!  " 
For  how  should  comfort  be  ? 
O  —  O  that  cooing  mouth,  —  that  little 

white  head  ! 
No ;  but  I  pray,  "  If  it  be  not  too  late, 

Open  to  me  the  gate. 
That  I  may  find  my  babe  when  I  am 
dead. 


"  Show  me  the  path.     I  had  forgotten 

Thee 
When  I  was  happy  and  free. 
Walking   down  here  in  the  gladsome 

light  o'  the  sun  ; 
But  now  I  come  and  mourn  ;  O  set  my 

feet 
In  the  road  to  Thy  blest  seat, 
And  for  the  rest,  O  God,  Thy  will  be 

done." 


DOMINION. 

When   found  the  rose  delight  in  her 

fair  hue  ? 
Color  is  nothing  to  this  world  ;  'tis  I 


2o8 


SO.VGS   lyiTH  PRELUDES. 


That  see  it.     Farther,  I  discover  soul, 

That  trees  are  nothing  to  their  fellow- 
trees  ; 

It  is  but  I  that  love  their  stateliness, 

And  I  that,  comforting  my  heart,  do 
sit 

At  noon  beneath  their  shadow.  I  will 
step 

On  the  ledges  of  this  world,  for  it  is 
mine  ; 

But  the  other  world  ye  wot  of  shall  go 
too  ; 

I  will  carry  it  in  my  bosom.  O  my 
world, 

That  was  not  built  with  clay ! 

Consider  it 
(This  outer  world  we   tread  on)   as  a 

harp,  — 
A  gracious  instrument  on  whose  fair 

strings 
We  learn  those  airs  we  shall  be  set  to 

play 
When   mortal   hours  are   ended.     Let 

the  wings, 
Man,  of  thy  spirit  move  on  it  as  wind, 
And  draw  forth  melody.    Why  shouldst 

thou  yet 
Lie  grovelling  ?     More  is  won  than  e'er 

was  lost : 
Inherit.     Let  thy  day  be  to  thy  night 
A    teller    of    good    tidings.      Let   thy 

praise 
Go  up  as  birds  go  up  that,  when  they 

wake, 
Shake  off  the  dew  and  soar. 

So  take  Joy  home, 
And  make  a  place  in  thy  great  heart  for 

her, 
And  give  her  time  to  grow,  and  cherish 

her ; 
Then  will  she  come,  and  oft  will  sing 

to  thee. 
When  thou  art  working  in  the  furrows ; 

Or  weeding  m  the  sacred  hour  of  dawn. 
It  is  a  comely  fashion  to  be  gHd,  — 
Joy  is  the  grace  we  say  to  God. 

Art  tired  ? 
There  is  a  rest  remaining.     Hast  thou 
sinned  ? 


There  is  a  Sacrifice.     Lift  up  thy  head, 
Tlie  lovely  world,  and  the  over-world 

alike, 
Ring  with  a  song  eterne,  a  happy  rede, 
"Thy  Father  loves  thee." 


Yon  moored  mackerel  fleet 

Hangs  thick  as  a  swarm  of  bees, 

Or  a  Clustering  village  street     • 
Foundationless  built  on  the  seas. 


The  mariners  ply  their  craft, 
Each  set  in  his  castle  frail ; 

His  care  is  all  for  the  draught, 
And  he  dries  the  rain-beaten  sail 


For  rain  came  down  in  ihe  night, 
And  thunder  muttered  full  oft, 

But  now  the  azure  is  bright. 
And  hawks  are  wheeling  aloft. 


I  take  the  land  to  my  breast, 
In  her  coat  with  daisies  fine  ; 

For  me  are  the  hills  in  their  best, 
And  all  that's  made  is  mine. 


Sing  high  !   "  Though  the  red  sun  dip, 

There  yet  is  a  day  for  me  ; 
Nor  youth  I  count  for  a  ship 

That  long  ago  foundered  at  sea. 


"  Did  the  lost  love  die  and  depart? 

Many  times  since  we  have  met ; 
For  I  hold  the  years  in  my  heart. 

And  all  that  was — -is  yet. 


"  I  grant  to  the  king  his  reign  ; 

Let  us  yield  him  homage  due  ; 
But  over  the  lands  there  are  twain, 

O  king,  I  must  rule  as  you. 


SONGS    IFITH    PRELUDES. 


209 


"  I  grant  to  the  wise  his  meed, 
But  his  yoke  I  will  not  brook,' 

For  God  taught  me  to  read,  — 
He  lent  me  the  world  lor  a  book." 


FRIENDSHIP. 

ON  A  SUN-PORTRAIT  OF  HER  HUSBAND, 
SENT  BY  HIS  WIFE  TO  THEIR  FRIEND. 

Beautiful  eyes,  — and  shall  I  see  no 

nime 
The  living  thought  when  it  would  leap 

from  them, 
And  play  in  all  its  sweetness  'neath 

their  lids  ? 

Here    was    a   man  familiar  with  fair 

heights 
That  poets  climb.     Upon  his  peace  the 

tears 
And  troubles  of  our  race  deep  inroads 

made. 
Yet  life  was  sweet  to  him  ;  he  kept  his 

heart 
At  home.      Who  saw  his  wife  might 

well  have  thought  — 
"  God  loves  this  man.    He  chose  a  wife 

for  him  — 
The  true   one!"     O  sweet  eyes,  that 

seem  to  live, 
1  know  so  much  of  you,  tell  me  the 

rest! 
Eyes  full   of   fatherhood    and    tender 

care 
For  small,  young  children.     Is  a  mes- 
sage here 
That  you  would  fain  have  sent,  but  had 

not  time  ? 
If  such  there  be,  I   promise,    by  long 

love 
And  perfect  friendship,  by  all  trust  that 

comes 
Of  understanding,  that  I  will  not  fail. 
No,  nor  delay  to  find  it. 

O,  my  heart 
Will  often  pain  me  as  for  some  strange 
fault,  — 


Some  grave  defect  in  nature,  — when  I 
think 

How  I,  delighted,  'neath  those  olive- 
trees, 

Moved  to  the  music  of  the  tideless 
main. 

While,  with  sore  weeping,  in  an  island 
home 

They  laid  that  much-loved  head  be- 
neath the  sod. 

And  I  did  not  know. 


I  stand  on  the  bridge  where  last  we 
stood 
When  delicate  leaves  were  young; 
The  children   called   us  from   yoi.der 
wood. 
While  a  mated  blackbird  sung. 


Ah,  yet  you  call,  —  in  your  gladress 
call,  — 

And  I  hear  your  pattering  feet ; 
It  does  not  matter,  matter  at  all. 

You  fatherless  children  sweet,  — 


It  does  not  matter  at  all  to  you, 

Young  hearts  that  pleasure  besets; 

The  father  sleeps,  but  the  world  is  new, 
The  child  of  his  love  forgets. 


I  too,  it  may  be,  before  they  drop, 
The  leaves  that  flicker  to-day. 

Ere  bountiful   gleams  make   ripe  the 
crop. 
Shall  pass  from  my  place  away : 


Ere  yon  gray  cygnet  puts  on  her  white, 
Or  snow  lies  soft  on  the  wold, 

Shall   shut   these   eyes   on  the  lovely 
light. 
And  leave  the  story  untold. 


U'INSTANLEY. 


Shall  I  tell  it  there  ?    Ah,  let  that  be, 
For  the  warm  pulse  beats  so  high  ; 

To   love   to-day,    and   to  breathe   and 
see,  — 
To-morrow  perhaps  to  die,  — 


Leave  it  with  God.     But  this  I  have 
known. 
That  sorrow  is  over  soon  ; 
Some   in   dark    nights,    sore    w^eeping 
alone, 
Forget  by  full  of  the  moon. 


But  if  all  loved,  as  the  few  can  love. 
This  world  would  seldom  be  we  1 ; 

And  who  need  wish,  if  lie  dwells  above, 
For  a  deep,  a  long  death-kneU. 


There  are  four  or  five,  who,   passing 
this  place, 
While  they  live  will  name  me  yet  ; 
And  when  I  am  gone  will  think  on  my 
face. 
And  feel  a  kind  of  regret. 


WINSTANLEY. 


THE   APOLOGY. 

Quoth   the   cedar    to    the    reeds    and 
rushes, 
"  IVater-grass,  you  know  jiot  ivluit 
I  do; 
Know  not  of  viy  storms,  nor  of  my 
hushes. 
And — I  know  not  yon." 

Quoth  the  reeds  and  rushes,  "  Wind'.' 
O  waken  ! 
Breathe,  O  wind,  and  set  our  an- 
siver  free. 
For  7ue  have  no  voice,  of  you  forsaken, 
For  the  cedar-tree^ ' 


Quoth   the  earth  at  midnight  to  the 
ocean, 
"  IVitderness  of  water,  lost  to  z<iew, 
Natight  you  are  to  me  but  sounds  of 
motion  ; 
I  am  naught  to  you^ 

Quoth  tJie  ocean,  ^^  Dawn'.   O  fairest, 
clearest. 
Touch  me  with  thy  golden  fingers 
bland  ; 
For  I  have  710  smile  till  thou  appearest 
For  the  lovely  land." 

Quoth    tJie   hero  dying,    whehned  in 
glory, 
"  Many  blaine  me,  few  have  under- 
stood ; 
Ah,  7ny  folk,  to  you  I  leave  a  story,  — 
Make  its  meaning good.^^ 

Quoth  the  folk,  "  Sing,  poet  I  teach  us, 
f<rove  us  ; 
Surely  we  sliall  learn  the  tneaning 
titen  ; 
IVound  us   with  a    pain    divitie,    O 
move  us, 
For  this  7nan  of  men" 


WiNSTANLEv's  deed,  you  kindly  folk, 

With  it  I  fill  my  lay, 
And  a  nobler  man   ne'er  walked   the 
world. 

Let  his  name  be  what  it  may. 

The   good  ship   "Snowdrop"  tarried 
long. 
Up  at  the  vane  looked  he  ; 
"  Belike,"   he  said,    for  the  wind  had 
dropped, 
"  She  lieth  becalmed  at  sea." 

The  lovely  ladies  flocked  within, 
And  still  would  each  one  say, 

"  Good  mercer,  be  the  ships  come  up  ?" 
But  still  he  answered,     Nay." 

Then  stepped  two  mariners  down  the 
street. 

With  looks  of  grief  and  fear : 
"  Now,  if  Winstanley  be  your  name, 

We  bring  you  evil  cheer ! 


IVINSTANLEY. 


"  For  the  good  ship  '  Snowdrop '  struck, 
—  she  struck 
On  the  rock,  — the  Eddystone, 
And  down  she  went  with  threescore 
men, 
We  two  being  left  alone. 

"  Down  in  the  deep,  with  freight  and 
crew. 

Past  any  help  she  lies, 
And  never  a  bale  ha;  come  to  shore 

Of  all  thy  merchandise." 

"For  cloth  o'  gold  and  comely  frieze," 
Winstanley  said,  and  sighed, 

"  For  velvet  coif,  or  costly  coat, 
They  fathoms  deep  may  bide. 

"O  thou  brave  skipper,   blithe  and 
kind, 

O  mariners,  bold  and  true, 
Sorry  at  heart,  right  sorry  am  I, 

A-thlnking  of  yours  and  you. 

"  Many  long  days  Winstanley's  breast 

Shall  feel  a  weight  within, 
For  a  waft  of  wind  he  shall  be  'feared 

And  trading  count  but  sin. 

"To  him  no  more  it  shall  be  joy 

To  pace  the  cheerful  town. 
And  see  the  lovely  ladies  gay 

Step  on  in  velvet  gown." 


The    ".Snowdrop"    sank  at    Lammas 
tide, 

All  under  the  yeasty  spray  ; 
On  Christmas  Eve  the  brig  "  Content" 

Was  also  cast  away. 


He  little  thought  o'  New  Year's  night, 

So  jolly  as  he  sat  then, 
While  drank  the  toast  and  praised  the 
roast 

The  round-faced  .'\ldermen,  — 

While  serving-lads  ran  to  and  fro, 

Pouring  the  ruby  wine, 
And  jellies  trembled  on  the  board, 

And  towering  pasties  fine,  — 


While  loud  huzzas  ran  up  the  roof 
Till  the  lamps  did  rock  o'erhead, 

And  holly-boughs  from  rafters  hung 
Dropped  down  their  berries  red,  — 

He  little  thought  on  Plymouth  Hoe, 

With  every  rising  tide, 
How   the   wave   washed   in   his  sailor 
lads, 

And  laid  them  side  by  side. 

There  stepped  a  stranger  to  the  board: 
"  Now,  stranger,  who  be  ye?" 

He  looked  to  right,  he  looked  to  left, 
And  "  Rest  you  m.;rry,"  quoth  he  ; 

"  For  you  did  not  see  the  brig  go  down, 
Or  ever  a  storm  had  blown  ; 

For  you  did  not  see  the  white   wave 
rear 
At  the  rock,  —  the  Eddystone. 

"  She  drave  at  the  rock  with  sternsails 
set; 
Crash  went  the  masts  in  twain  ; 
She  staggered  back   with   her   mortal 
blow, 
Then  leaped  at  it  again. 

"There   rose   a  great   cry,  bitter  and 
strong, 
The  misty  moon  looked  out! 
And  the  water  swarmed  with  seamen's 
heads. 
And  the  wreck  was  strewed  about. 

"  I  saw  her  mainsail  lash  the  sea 
As  I  clung  to  the  rock  a'one  ; 

Then  she  heeled  over,  and  down  she 
went. 
And  sank  like  any  stone. 

"  She  was  a  fair  ship,  but  all's  one  ! 

Fur  naught  could  bide  the  shock." 
"  I  will  take  horse,"  Winstanley  said, 

"  And  see  this  deadly  rock  ; 

"  For  never  again  shall  bark  o'mine 

Sail  over  the  windy  sea, 
Unless,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  for  this 

Be  found  a  remedy." 


WINSTANLEY. 


Winstanley  rode  to  Plymouth  towii 
All  in  the  sleet  and  the  snow, 

And  he  looked  around  on  shore  and 
sound 
As  he  stood  on  Plymouth  Hoe, 

Till  a  pillar  of  spray  rose  far  away, 
And  shot  up  its  stately  head, 

Reared  and  fell  over,  and  reared  again  : 
"  'Xis  the  rock  1  the  rock !  "  he  said. 

Straight  to  the  Mayor  he  took  his  way, 
"Good  Master  Mayor,"  quoth  he, 

*'  I  am  a  mercer  of  London  town, 
And  owner  of  vessels  three,  — 

"  But  for  your  rock  of  dark  renown, 
I  had  five  to  track  the  main." 

"  You  are  one  of  many,"  the  old  Mayor 
said, 
"That  on  the  rock  complain. 

"  An  ill  rock,  mercer !  your  words  ring 
right, 

Well  with  my  thoughts  they  chime. 
For  my  two  sons  to  the  world  to  come 

It  sent  before  their  time." 

"Lend    me    a   lighter,    good    Master 
Mayor, 

And  a  score  of  shipwrights  free, 
For  I  think  to  raise  a  lantern  tower 

On  this  rock  o'  destiny." 

The  old  Mayor  laughed,   but  sighed 
also ; 

"Ah,  youth,"  quoth  he,  "is  rash; 
Sooner,  young  man,  thou'It  root  it  out 

From  the  sea  that  doth  it  lash. 

"  Who  sails  too  near  its  jagged  teeth. 

He  shall  have  evil  lot  : 
For  the  calmest  seas  that  tumble  there 

Froth  like  a  boiling  pot. 

"And  the  heavier  seas  few  look  on 
nigh. 
But  straight  they  lay  him  dead  ; 
A    seventy-gun-ship,    sir! — they'll 
shoot 
Higher  than  her  mast-head. 


"  O,  beacons  sighted  in  the  dark, 
They  are  right  welcome  thiiigs, 

And  piichpots  liaming  on  the  shore 
Show  fair  as  angel  wings. 

"Hast   god   in  hand?  then  light  the 
land. 

It  'longs  to  thee  and  me  ; 
But  let  alone  the  deadly  rock 

In  God  Almighty's  sea." 

Yet  said  he,  "  Nay,  —  I  must  away, 
On  the  rock  to  set  my  feet  ; 

My  debts  are  i;aid,  my  will  1  made, 
Or  ever  I  did  thee  greet. 

"  If  I  must  die,  then  let  me  die 
By  the  rock  and  not  elsewhere; 

If  I  may  live,  O  let  me  live 
To  mount  my  lighthouse  stair." 

The  old  Mayor  looked  him  in  the  face, 
And  answered  :   "  Have  thy  way ; 

Thy  heart  is  stout,  as  if  round  about 
It  was  braced  with  an  iron  stay : 

"Have  thy  will,  mercer!    choose  thy 
men. 

Put  off  from  the  storm-rid  shore  ; 
God  with  thee  be,  or  I  shall  see 

Thy  face  and  theirs  no  more." 

Heavily  plunged  the  breaking  wave, 

And  foam  flew  up  the  lea. 
Morning  and  even  the  drifted  snow 

Fell  into  the  dark  gray  sea. 

Winstanley  chose  him  men  and  gear ; 

He  said,  "  My  time  1  waste," 
For  the  seas  ran  seething  up  the  shore. 

And  the  wrack  drave  on  in  h.iste. 

But  twenty  days  he  waited  and  more, 

Pacing  the  strand  alone, 
Or  ever  he  set  his  manly  foot 

On  the  rock,  —  the  Eddystone. 

Then  he  and  the  sea  began  their  strife. 
And  worked  with  power  and  might : 

Whatever  the  man  reared  up  by  day 
The  sea  broke  down  by  night 


JVIM  STANLEY. 


He  wrought  at  ebb  vAx\\  bar  and  beam, 

He  sailed  to  shore  at  ilow  ; 
And  at  his  side,  by  that  same  tide, 
Came  bar  and  beam  also. 

"  Give  in,  give  in,"  the  old  Mayor  cried, 
"  Or  thou  wilt  rue  the  day." 

"Yonder  he    goes,"    the   townsfolk 
sighed, 
"  But  the  rock  will  have  its  way. 

"  For  all  his  looks  that  are  so  stout, 
And  his  speeches  brave  and  fair. 

He  may  wait  on  the  wind,  wait  on  the 
wave, 
But  he'll  build  no  lighthouse  there." 

In  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

The  rock  his  arts  did  flout, 
Through  the  long  days  and  the  short 
days, 

Till  all  that  year  ran  out. 

With  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

Another  year  came  in  : 
"  To  take  his  wage,"  the  workmen  said, 

"  We  almost  count  a  sin.'" 

Now  March  was  gone,  came  April  in. 
And  a  sea-fog  settled  down. 

And  forth  sailed  he  on  a  glassy  sea. 
He  sailed  from  Plymouth  town. 

With  men  and  stores  he  put  to  sea. 

As  he  was  wont  to  do ; 
They  showed  in  the  fog  like  ghosts  full 
faint,  — 

A  ghostly  craft  and  crew. 

And  the  sea-fog  lay  and  waxed  alway, 
For  a  long  eight  days  and  more  ; 

"  God  help  our  men,"  quoth  the  women 
then  ; 
"  For  they  bide  long  from  shore." 

They  paced   the   Hoe   in   doubt    and 
dread : 

"  Where  may  our  mariners  be  ?" 
But  the  brooding  fog  lay  soft  as  down 

Over  the  quiet  sea. 


A  Scottish  schooner  made  the  port. 
The  thirteenth  day  at  e"en  : 

"As  I  am  a  man,"  the  captain  cried, 
"  A  strange  sight  I  have  seen  : 

"And  a  strange  sound  heard,  my  mas- 
ters all, 
At  sea,  in  the  fog  and  the  rain. 
Like   shipwrights'  hammers  tapping 
low, 
Then  loud,  then  low  again. 

"And    a    stately    house    one    instant 
showed. 

Through  a  rift,  on  the  vessel's  lee  ; 
What  manner  of  creatures  may  be  those 

That  build  upon  the  sea  ?  " 

Then  sighed  the  folk,  "  The  Lord  be 

praised !  " 
And  they  flocked  to  the  shore  amain ; 
All  over  the  Hoe,  that  livelong  night, 
Many  stood  out  in  the  rain. 

It  ceased,  and  the  red  sun  reared  his 
head, 

And  the  rolling  fog  did  flee  ; 
And,  lo !   in  the  offing  faint  and  far 

Winstanley's  house  at  sea  ! 


In  fair  weather  with  mirth  and  cheer 

The  stately  tower  uprose  ; 
In  foul  weather,  with  hunger  and  cold, 

They  were  content  to  close  ; 

Till  up  the  stair  Winstanley  went, 

To  fire  the  wick  afar ; 
And  Plymouth  in  the  silent  night 

Looked  out,  and  saw  her  star. 


Winstanley  set  his  foot  ashore  : 
Said  he,  "  My  work  is  done  ; 

I  hold  it  strong  to  last  as  long 
As  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

"  But  if  it  fail,  as  fail  it  may. 
Borne  down  with  ruin  and  rout. 

Another  than  I  shall  rear  it  high. 
And  brace  the  girders  ston'. 


214 


WINSTANLEY. 


"  A  better  than  I  shall  rear  it  high, 

For  now  the  way  is  plain, 
And  though  1  were  dead,"  Winstanley 
said, 

"  The  light  would  shine  again. 

"  Yet,  were  I  fain  still  to  remain, 
Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep. 

And   tend   my  light   in   the   stormiest 
night 
That  ever  did  move  the  deep  ; 

"And  if  it   stood,   why,    then   'twere 
good, 
Amid  their  tremulous  stirs, 
To  count  each   stroke,  when  the  mad 
waves  broke. 
For  cheers  of  mariners. 


"  But  if  it  fell,  then  this  were  well, 

That  I  should  with  it  fall  ; 
Since,   for  my  part,    f  have  built  my 
heart 

In  the  courses  of  its  wall. 


"Ay  !  I  were  fain,  long  to  remain, 
Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep. 

And   tend   my   light   in   the   stormiest 
night 
That  ever  did  move  the  deep." 

With  that  Winstanley  went  his  way, 
And  left  the  rock  renowned. 

And  summer  and  winter  his  pilot  star 
Hung  bright  o'er  Plymouth  Sound. 


But  it  fell  out,  fell  out  at  last, 

That  he  would  put  to  sea. 
To  scan  once  more  his  lighthouse  tower 

On  the  rock  o'  destiny. 

And  the  winds  broke,  and  the  storm 
broke. 

And  wrecks  came  plunging  in  ; 
None  in  the  town  that  night  lay  down 

Or  sleep  or  rest  to  win. 

The    great    mad    waves  were    rolling 
graves. 

And  each  flung  up  its  dead  ; 
The  seething  flow  was  white  below, 

And  black  the  sky  o'erhead. 

And  when    the  dawn,   the   dull,   gray 
dawn. 
Broke  on  the  trembling  town. 
And  men  looked  south  to  the  harbor 
mouth, 
The  lighthouse  tower  was  down,  — 

Down  in  the  deep  where  he  doth  sleep 

Who  made  it  shine  afar. 
And  then  in  the  night  that  drowned  its 
light. 

Set,  with  his  pilot  star. 

Many   fair    tombs    in    the    glorimis 

^ loo  JUS 

At  VVestiitinsier  they  shoiv ; 
The  brave  and  the  great  lie  there  in 
state : 
IVinstanUy  lieth  low. 


THE 


MONITIONS     OF     THE     UNSEEN, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


THE 


MONITIONS     OF     THE     UNSEEN. 


THE  MONITIONS   OF  THE 
UNSEEN. 

There  are  who  give    themselves    to 

work  for  men,  — 
To  raise  the  lost,  to  gather  orphaned 

babes 
And  teach  them,  pitjring  of  their  mean 

estate, 
To  feel  for    misery,  and  to   look  on 

crime 
With   ruth,  till  they  forget  that  they 

themselves 
Are  of  the  race,  themselves  among  the 

crowd 
Under  the  sentence    and  outside   the 

And  of  the  family  and  m  the  doom. 
Cold  is  the  world ;  they  feel  how  cold 

it  is. 
And  wish   that    they  could  warm  it. 

Hard  is  life 
For  some      They  would  that  they  could 

soften  it ; 
And,  in  the  doing  of  their  work,  they 

sigh 
As  if  it  was  their  choice  and  not  their 

lot; 
And,  in  the   raising  of  their  prayer  to 

God, 
They  crave  His  kindness  for  the  world 

He  made, 
Till  they,  at  last,  forget  that  He,  not 

they. 
Is  the  true  lover  of  man. 


Now,  in  an  ancient  town,  that  had 
sunk  low,  — 

Trade  having  drifted  from  it,  while 
there  stayed 

Too  many,  that  it  erst  had  fed,  be- 
hind, — 

There  walked  a  curate  once,  at  early 
day. 

It  was  the  summer-time  ;  but  summer 

air 
Came  never,  in  its  sweetness,  down  that 

dark 
And  crowded  alley,  —  never  reached 

the  door 
Whereat    he    stopped,  —  the    sordid, 

shattered  door. 

He  paused,  and,  looking  right  and  left, 
beheld 

Dirt  and  decay,  the  lowering  tenements 

That  leaned  toward  each  other ;  bro- 
ken panes 

Bulging  with  rags,  and  grim  with  old 
neglect ; 

And  reeking  hills  of  formless  refuse, 
heaped 

To  fade  and  fester  in  a  stagnant  air. 

But  he  thought  nothing  of  it :  he  had 
learned 

To  take  all  wretchedness  for  granted,  — 
he. 

Reared  in  a  stainless  home,  and  radi- 
ant vet 

With  the  clear  hues  of  healthful  Eng- 
lish youth. 


2l8 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE    UNSEEN. 


Had  learned  to  kneel  by  beds  forlorn, 

and  stoop 
Under  foul  lintels.     He   could  touch, 

with  hand 
Unshrinking,  fevered  fingers  ;  he  could 

hear 
The  language  of  the  lost,  in  haunt  and 

den,  — 
So  dismal,  that  the  coldest  passer-by 
Must   needs   be  sorry  for  them,   and, 

albeit 
They  cursed,  would  dare  to  speak  no 

harder  words 
Than  these,  —  "  God  help  them  ! " 

Ay !  a  learned  man 
The  curate  in  all  woes  that  plague  man- 
kind, — 
Too    learned,  for  he  was  but  young. 

His  heart 
Had  yearned  till  it  was  overstrained, 

and  now 
He  —  plunged    into  a   narrow  slough 

unblest. 
Had  struggled  with  its  deadly  waters, 

till 
His  own  head  had  gone  under,  and  he 

took 
Small  joy  in  work  he  coidd  not  look  to 

aid 
Its  cleansing. 

Yet,  by  one  right  tender  tie, 
Hope  held  him  yet.    The  fathers  coarse 

and  dull, 
Vile  mothers  hard,  and  boys  and  girls 

profane, 
His  soul   drew  back  from.      He  had 

worked  for  them,  — 
Work  without  joy :  but,  in  his  heart  of 

hearts, 
He    loved    the    little    children  ;   and, 

whene'er 
He  heard  their  prattle  innocent,  and 

heard 
Their    tender    voices     lisping    sacred 

words 
That    he  had  taught   them,  —  in  the 

cleanly  calm 
Of   decent  school,  by  decent  matron 

held,  — 
Then  would    he   say,   "  I   shall  have 

pleasure  yet, 
In  these." 


But  now,  when  he  pushed  back  that 

door. 
And  mounted   up   a   flight   of   ruined 

stairs. 
He   said   not   that.     He    said,    "  Oh ! 

once  I  thought 
The  little  children  would  make  bright 

for  me 
The  crown  they  wear  who  have  won 

many  souls 
For    righteousness;   but  oh,  this  evil 

place ! 
Hard  lines  it  gives  them,  cold  and  dirt 

abhorred,  — 
Hunger  and  nakedness,  in  lieu  of  love, 
And  blows  instead  of  care. 

And  so  they  die, 
The  little  children  that  I  love,  —  they 

die,  — 
They   turn  their  wistful  faces  to  the 

wall. 
And  slip  away  to  God." 

With  that,  his  hand 
He  laid  upon  a  latch  and  lifted  it. 
Looked  in  full  quietly,   and   entered 
straight. 

What  saw  he  there  ?  He  saw  a  three- 
years  child. 

That  lay  a-dying  on  a  wisp  of  straw 

Swept  up  into  a  corner.     O'er  its  brow 

The  damps  of  death  were  gathering: 
all  alone, 

Uncared  for,  save  that  by  its  side  was 
set 

A  cup,  it  waited.  And  the  eyes  had 
ceased 

To  look  on  things  at  hand.  He  thought 
they  gazed 

In  wistful  wonder,  or  some  faint  sur- 
mise 

Of  coming  change,  —  as  though  they 
saw  the  gate 

Of  that  fair  land  that  seems  to  most  of 
us 

Very  far  off. 

When  he  beheld  the  look, 
He  said,   "  I  knew,   I  knew  how  this 

would  be ! 
Another!      Ay,   and  but  for  drunken 

blows 


THE  MONITIONS  OF   THE    UNSEEN. 


219 


And  dull  forgetfulness  of  infant  need, 

This  little  one  had  lived."  And  there- 
upon 

The  misery  of  it  wrought  upon  him  so, 

That,  unaware,  he  wept.  Oh  !  then  it 
was 

That,  in  the  bending  of  his  manly- 
head, 

It  came  between  the  child  and  that 
whereon 

He  gazed,  and,  when  the  curate  glanced 
again. 

Those  dying  eyes,  drawn  back  to  earth 
once  more. 

Looked  up  into  his  own,  and  smiled. 

He  drew 
More   near,   and   kneeled    beside   the 

small  frail  thing, 
Because  the  lips  were  moving ;  and  it 

raised 
Its  baby  hand,  and  stroked  away  his 

tears, 
And  whispered,   "Master!    master!" 

and  so  died. 

Now,  in  that  town  there  was  an  ancient 

church, 
A  minster  of  old  days  which  these  had 

turned 
To  parish  uses :  there  the  curate  served. 
It  stood  within  a  quiet  swarded  Close, 
Sunny  and  still,  and,  though  it  was  not 

far 
From   those  dark  courts  where   poor 

humanity 
Struggled  and  swarmed,  it  seemed  to 

wear  its  own 
Still  atmosphere  about  it,  and  to  hold 
That   old-world   calm  within   its   pre- 
cincts pure 
And  that  grave  rest  which  modern  life 

foregoes. 

When  the  sad  curate,  rising  from  his 
knees, 

Looked  from  the  dead  to  heaven,  — 
as,  unaware. 

Men  do  when  they  would  track  de- 
parted life, — 

He  heard  the  deep  tone  of  the  minster- 
bel! 

Sounding  for  service,  and  he  turned 
away 


So  heavy  at  heart,  that,  when  he  left 

behind 
That  dismal  habitation,  and  came  out 
In  the  clear  sunshine  of  the  minster- 
yard, 
He  never  marked  it.     Up  the  aisle  he 

moved, 
With  his  own  gloom  about  him ;  then 

came  forth, 
And  read  before  the  folk  grand  words 

and  calm,  — 
Words  full  of  hope ;  but  into  his  dull 

heart 
Hope  came  not.     As  one  talketh  in  a 

dream. 
And  doth  not  mark  the  sense  of  his 

own  words. 
He   read ;  and,   as  one  walketh  in  a 

dream. 
He  after  walked  toward  the  vestment- 
room, 
And  never  marked  the  way  he  went  by, 

—  no. 
Nor  the  gray  verger  that  before  him 

stood, 
The  great  church-keys  depending  from 

his  hand. 
Ready  to  follow  him  out  and  lock  the 

door. 

At  length,  aroused  to  present  things, 

but  not 
Content  to  break  the  sequence  of  his 

thought. 
Nor  ready  for  the  working   day   that 

held 
Its    busy    course     without,    he    said, 

"Good  friend. 
Leave  me  the  keys:  I  would  remain 

awhile." 
And,  when  the  verger  gave,  he  moved 

with  him 
Toward  the  door  distraught,  then  shut 

him  out. 
And  locked  himself  within  the  church 

alone. 
The  minster-church  was  like  a  great 

brown  cave. 
Fluted  and  fine  with   pillars,  and  all 

dim 
With    glorious    gloom  ;    but,    as    the 

curate  turned. 
Suddenly   shone   the   sun, — and  roof 

and  walls. 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE   UNSEEN. 


Also  the  clustering  shafts  from  end  to 
end, 

Were  thickly  sown  all  over,  as  it  were, 

With  seedling  rjinbows.  And  it  went 
and  came 

And  went,  that  sunny  beam,  and 
drifted  up 

Ethereal  bloom  to  flush  the  open  wings 

And  carven  cheeks  of  dimpled  cheru- 
bim. 

And  dropped  upon  the  curate  as  he 
passed. 

And  covered  his  white  raiment  and  his 
hair. 

Then  did  look  down  upon  him  from 
their  place, 

High  in  the  upper  hghts,  grave  mitred 
priests, 

And  grand  .old  monarchs  in  their 
flowered  gowns 

And  capes  of  miniver;  and  therewithal 

(A  veihng  cloud  gone  by)  the  naked 
sun 

Smote  with  his  burning  splendor  all 
the  pile. 

And  in  there  rushed,  through  half- 
translucent  panes, 

A  sombre  glory  as  of  rusted  gold. 

Deep  ruby  stains,  and  tender  blue  and 
green. 

That  made  the  floor  a  beauty  and  de- 
light. 

Strewed  as  with  phantom  blossoms, 
sweet  enough 

To  have  been  wafted  there  the  day 
they  dropt 

On  the  flower-beds  in  heaven. 

The  curate  passed 
Adown  the  long  south  aisle,  and  did 

not  think 
Upon  this  beauty,  nor  that  he  him- 
self— 
Excellent  in  the  strength  of  youth,  and 

fair 
With  all  the  majesty  that  noble  work 
And  stainless  manners  give  —  did  add 

his  part 
To  make  it  fairer. 

In  among  the  knights 
That  lay  with  hands  uplifted,  by  the 
lute 


And   palm   of   many  a  saint, — 'neath 

capitals 
Whereon  our  fathers  had  been  bold  to 

carve 
With  earthly  tools  their  ancient  child- 
like dream 
Concerning  heavenly  fruit   and   living 

bowers. 
And  glad  full-throated  birds  that  sing 

up  there 
Among   the   branches  of  the    tree   of 

life,— 
Through  all  the  ordered  forest  of  the 

shafts. 
Shooting  on  high  to  enter  into  light. 
That  swam  aloft,  —  he  took  his  silent 

way, 
And  in  the  southern  transept  sat  him 

down. 
Covered  his  face,  and  thought. 

He  said,  "  No  pain. 
No  passion,  and  no  aching,  heart  o' 

mine. 
Doth  stir  vv^ithin  thee.     Oh !   I  would 

there  did: 
Thou  art  so  dull,  so  tired.     I  have  lost 
I  know  not  what.     I  see  the  heavens 

as  lead : 
They    tend    no    whither.      Ah !     the 

world  is  bared 
Of  her  enchantment  now:  she  is  but 

earth 
And  water.     And,  though  much  hath 

passed  away. 
There  may  be  more  to  go.     I  may  for- 
get 
The   joy  and    fear  that    have  been*- 

there  may  live 
No  more  for  me  tlie  fervency  of  hope 
Nor  the  arrest  of  wonder. 

"Once  I  said, 
'Content  wiU  wait   on  work,   though 

work  appear 
Unfruitful.'      Now  I  say,    'Where   is 

the  good? 
What  is  the  good?'     A  lamp  when  it 

is  lit 
Must  needs  give  light ;  but  I  am  like  a 

man 
Holding  his  lamp   in  some   deserted 

place 


THE  MONITIONS  OF   THE    UNSEEN. 


22t 


Where  no  foot  passeth.     Must  I  trim 

my  lamp, 
And  ever  painfully  toil  to  keep  it  bright, 
When  use  for  it  is  none  ?     I  must ;  I 

will. 
Though   God  withhold  my  wages,    I 

must  work, 
And  watch  the  bringing  of  my  work  to 

nought,  — 
Weed  in  the  vineyard  through  the  heat 

o'  the  day. 
And,   overtasked,    behold    the    weedy 

place 
Grow  ranker  yet  in  spite  of  me. 

"Oh!  yet 
My  meditated  words  are  trodden  down 
Like  a  little  wayside  grass.     Castaway 

shells, 
Lifted  and  tossed  aside  by  a  plunging 

wave, 
Have   no  more  force  against  it  than 

have  I 
Against  the  sweeping,  weltering  wave 

of  life. 
That,  lifting  and  dislodging  me,  drives 

on. 
And  notes  not  mine  endeavor." 

Afterward, 
He  added  more  words  like  to  these  ;  to 

wit. 
That  it  was  hard  to  see  the  world  so 

sad : 
He  would  that  it  were  happier.    It  was 

hard 
To  see  the  blameless  overborne ;  and 

hard 
To  know  that  God,  who  loves  the  world. 

should  yet 
Let  it  lie  down  in  sorrow,  when  a  smile 
From  Him  would  make  it  laugh  and 

sing,  —  a  word 
From  Him  transform  it  to  a  heaven. 

He  said, 
Moreover,   "When  will  this  be  done? 

My  life 
Hath  not  yet  reached  the  noon,  and  I 

am  tired  ; 
And  oh  !  it  may  be  that,  uncomforted 
By  foolish  hope  of  doing  good  and  vain 
Conceit  of  benig  useful,  I  may  live, 
And  it  may  be  my  duty  to  go  on 


Working  for  years  and  years,  for  years 

and  years." 
But,  while  the  words  were  uttered,  in 

his  heart 
There  dawned  a  vague  alarm.     He  was 

aware 
That  somewhat  touched  him,  and  he 

lifted  up 
His  face.     "  I  am  alone,"  the  curate 

said,  — 
"I    think    I    am   alone.     What   is    it, 

then? 
I   am   ashamed !     My  raiment  is   not 

clean. 
My  lips,  —  I  am  afraid  they  are  not 

clean. 
My   heart    is   darkened  and   unclean. 

Ah  me, 
To  be  a  man,  and  yet  to  tremble  so ! 
Strange,  strange ! 

And  there  was  sitting  at  his  feet  — 
He  could  not  see  it  plainly  —  at  his 

feet 
A   very  little   child.     And,  while  the 

blood 
Drave  to  his  heart,  he  set  his  eye  on  it, 
Gazing,    and,    lo!  the   loveliness  from 

heaven 
Took  clearer  form  and  color.     He  be- 
held 
The  strange,  wise  sweetness  of  a  dim- 
pled mouth,  — 
The  deep  serene  of  eyes  at  home  with 

bliss, 
And  perfect  in  possession.     So  it  spoke, 
"  My  master!  "  but  he  answered  not  a 

word  ; 
And   it  went  on:  "I  had  a  name,  a 

name. 
He  knew  my  name  ;  but  here  they  can 

forget  " 
The  curate  answered :  "  Nay,  I  know 

thee  well. 
I    love     thee.      Wherefore     art     thou 

come?"     It  said, 
"They   sent   me;"    and  he    faltered, 

"  Fold  thy  hand, 
O  most  dear  little  one  !  for  on  it  g'enms 
A  gem  that  is  so  bright  1  cannot  look 
Thereon."      It    said,     "  When    I    did 

leave  this  world, 
That  was  a  tear.     But  that  was  long 

ago; 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE   UNSEEN. 


For  I  have  lived  among  the  happy  folk, 
You  wot  of,  ages,  ages."     Then  said 

he, 
"  Do  they  forget  us,  while  beneath  the 

palms 
They  take  their  infinite  leisure  ? "  And, 

with  eyes 
That  seemed  to  muse  upon  him,  look- 
ing up 
In  peace  the  little  child  made  answer, 

"  Nay  ; " 
And  murmured,  in  the  language  that  he 

loved, 
"How   is   it   that  his  hair  is  not  yet 

white  ; 
For  I  and  all  the  others  have  been  long 
Waiting  for  him  to  come." 

"And  was  it  long?" 
The    curate    answered,    pondering. 

"  Time  being  done. 
Shall  life  indeed  expand,  and  give  the 

sense. 
In  our  to-come,  of  Infinite  extension  ?  " 
Then  said  the  child,   "  In  heaven  we 

children  talk 
Of  the  great  matters,  and  our  lips  are 

wise ; 
But  here  I  can  but  talk  with  thee  in 

words 
That  here  I  knew."    And  therewithal, 

arisen. 
It  said,  "  I  pray  you  take  me  in  your 

arms."' 
Then,  being  afraid  but  willing,  so  he 

did; 
And    partly    drew    about  the   radiant 

child, 
For  better  covering  its  dread  purity. 
The  foldings  of  his  gown.     And  he  be- 
held 
Its  beautv,  and  the  tremulous  woven 

light 
That  hung  upon  its  hair ;   withal,  the 

robe, 
'  Whiter  than  fuller  of  this  world  can 

white,' 
That  clothed  its  immortality.     And  so 
The  trembling  came  again,  and  he  was 

dumb. 
Repenting  his  uncleanness :    and   he 

lift 
His  eyes,  and  all  the  holy  place  was 

full 


Of  living  things  ;  and  some  were  faint 

and  dim, 
As  if  they  bore  an  intermittent  life. 
Waxing  and  waning  ;  and  they  had  no 

form, 
But  drifted  on  like  slowly  trailed  clouds, 
Or  moving  spots  of  darkness,  with  an 

eye 
Apiece.     And  some,   in  guise  of  enl 

birds. 
Came  by  in  troops,  and  stretched  their 

naked  necks. 
And  some   were   men-like,    but   their 

heads  hung  down  ; 
And  he  said,  "  O  my  God !  let  me  find 

grace 
Not  to  behold  their  faces,  for  I  know 
They  must  be  wicked  and  right  terri- 
ble." 
But  while  he  prayed,  lo !  whispers ;  and 

there  moved 
Two  shadows  on  the  wall.     He  could 

not  see 
The  forms  of  them  that  cast  them  :  he 

could  see ' 
Only  the  shadows  as  of  two  that  sat 
Upon  the  floor,  where,  clad  in  women's 

weeds. 
They  lisped  together.     And  he  shud- 
dered much : 
There  was  a  rustling  near  him,  and  he 

feared 
Lest  they  should  touch  him,  and  he  feel 

their  touch. 

"  It  is  not  great,"   quoth   one,    "  the 

work  achieved. 
We    do,    and  we   delight  to    do,   our^ 

best: 
But  that  is  little  ;  for,  my  dear,"  quoth 

she, 
"This  tow-er  and  town  have  been  in- 
fested long 
With  angels."  —  "  Ay,"  the  other  made 

reply, 
"  I  had  a  little  evil  one,  of  late, 
That  I  picked  up  as  it  was  crawling 

out 
O'  the  pit,  and  took  and  cherished  in 

my  breast. 
It  would  divine  tor  me,  and  oft  would 

moan, 
'  Pray  thee,  no  churches,'  and  it  spake 

of  this. 


THE   MONITIONS  OF  THE    UNSEEN. 


But  I  was  harried  once,  —  thou  know'st 

by  whom,  — 
And  fled  in  here  ;   and,  when  he  fol- 
lowed me, 
I   crouching    by  this    pillar,    he   let 

down 
His  hand,  —  being  all  too  proud  to  send 

his  eyes 
In  its  wake,  ^  and,  plucking  forth  my 

tender  imp. 
Flung  it  behind  him.     It  went  yelping 

forth  ; 
And,  as  for  me,  I  never  saw  it  more, 
^luch  is  against  us,  —  very  much  :  the 

times 
Are  hard."     She  paused:   her  fellow 

took  the  word, 
Plaining  On  such  as  preach  and  them 

that  plead. 
"  Even    such    as   haunt   the   yawning 

mouths  of  hell," 
Quoth  she,  "and  pluck  them  back  that 

run  thereto." 
Then,  like  a  sudden  blow,  there  fell  on 

him 
The  utterance  of  his  name.     "  There  is 

no  soul 
That  I  loathe  more,  and  oftener  curse. 

Woe's  me. 
That  cursing  should  be  vain  I     Ay,  he 

will  go 
Gather  the  sucking  children,  that  are 

yet 
Too  young  for  us,  and  viatch  and  shel- 
ter them 
Till  the  strong  Angels  —  pitiless  and 

stern. 
But  to  them  lov-ing  ever  —  sweep  them 

in. 
By  armsful,  to  the  unapproachable  fold. 


"We  strew  his  path  with  gold  :  it  will 
not  lie. 

'Deal  softly  with  him,'  was  the  mas- 
ter's word. 

We  brought  him  all  delights :  his  angel 
came 

And  stood  between  them  and  his  eyes. 
They  spend 

Much   pains   upon   him,  —  keep   him 
poor  and  low 

And  unbeloved  ;  and  thus  he  gives  his 
mind 


To  fill  the  fateful,  the  impregnable 
Child-fold,  and  sow  on  earth  the  seed 
of  stars. 

"  Oh !  hard  is  serv'ing  against  love,  — 
the  love 

Of  the  Unspeakable  ;  for  if  we  soil 

The  souls  He  openeth  out  a  washing- 
place  ; 

And  if  we  grudge,  and  snatch  away  the 
bread. 

Then  will  He   save   by   poverty,  and 
gain 

By  early  gi\'ing  up  of  blameless  life  ; 

And  if  we  shed  out  gold,  He  even  will 
save 

In  spite   of  gold,  —  of  twice-refined 
gold." 

With  that  the  curate  set  his  daunted 

eyes 
To  look  upon  the  shadows  of  the  fiends. 
He  was  made  sure  they  could  not  see 

the  child 
That  nestled  in  his  arms  ;  he  also  knew 
They  were  unconscious  that  his  mortal 

ears 
Had  new  intelligence,  which  gave  their 

speech 
Possible  entrance  through  his  garb  of 

clay. 

He  was  afraid,   yet   awful  gladness 

reached 
His  soul :  the  testimony  of  the  lost 
Upbraided  him  ;  but  while  he  trembled 

yet. 
The  heavenly  child  had  lifted  up  its 

head 
And  left  his  arms,  and  on  the  marble 

floor 
Stood  beckoning. 

And,  its  touch  withdrawn,  the  place 
Was  silent,  empty ;  all  that  swarming 

tribe 
Of  evil  ones  concealed  behind  the  veil. 
And  shut   into   their   separate   world, 

were  closed 
From  his  observance.     He  arose,  and 

paced 
After  the  little  child,  —  as  half  in  fear 
That  it  would  leave   him,  —  till   they 

reached  a  door ; 


224 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE    UNSEEN. 


And  then   said  he, — but   much    dis- 
traught he  spoke, 
Laying  his  hand  across  the  lock,  — 

"  This  door 
Shuts  in  the  stairs  whereby  men  mount 

the  tower. 
Wouldst  thou  go  up,  and  so  withdraw 

to  heaven  ? " 
X\   answered,    "  I   will   mount   them." 

Then  said  he, 
"  And  I  will  follow."  —  "  So  thou  shalt 

do  well," 
The  radiant  thing  replied,  and  it  went 

up. 
And  he,  amazed,  went  after ;  for  the 

stairs, 
Otherivhile  dark,  were  lightened  by  the 

rays 
Shed  out   of  raiment  w'oven   in  high 

heaven, 
And  hair  whereon  had  smiled  the  light 

of  God. 

With  that,  they,  pacing  on,  came  out 

at  last 
Into  a  dim,  weird  place,  —  a  chamber 

formed 
Betwixt  the  roofs:  for  you  shall  know 

that  all 
The  vaulting  of  the  nave,  fretted  and 

fine, 
Was  covered  with  the  dust  of  ages, 

laid 
Thick  with  those  chips  of  stone  which 

they  had  left 
Who  wrought  it ;  but  a  high-pitched 

roof  was  reared 
Above  it,  and  the  western  gable  pierced 
With  three  long  narrow  lights.     Great 

tie-beams  loomed 
Across,    and   many   daws    frequented 

there, 
Tlie  starling  and  the  sparrow  littered 

it 
With  straw,  and  peeped  from  many  a 

shady  nook ; 
And  there  was  lifting  up  of  wings,  and 

there 
Was  hasty  exit  when  the  curate  came. 
But  sitting  on  a  beam  and  moving  not 
For  him,  lie  saw  two  fair  gray  turtle- 
doves 
Bowing  their  heads,  and  cooing;  atid 

the  child 


Put  forth  a  hand  to  touch  his  own,  but 

straight 
He,    startled,    drew   it   back,   because, 

forsooth, 
A   stirring   fancy   smote   him,   and  he 

thought 
That  language  trembled  on  their  inno- 
cent tongues, 
And  floated  forth  in  speech  that  man 

could  hear. 
Then  said  the  child,  "Yet  touch,  my 

master  dear." 
And  he  let  down  his  hand,  and  touched 

again  ; 
And  so  it  was.     "  But  if  they  had  their 

way," 
One  turtle   cooed,    "how  should  this 

world  go  on?" 

Then  he  looked  well  upon  them,  as  he 
stood 

Upright    before    them.     They    were 
feathered  doves, 

And  sitting  close  together;    and  their 
eye's 

Were  rounded  with  the  rim  that  marks 
their  kind. 

Their  tender  crimson  feet  did  pat  the 
beam,  — 

No  phantoms  they ;  and  soon  the  fel- 
low-dove 

Made  answer,  "  Nay,  they  count  them- 
selves so  wise. 

There  is  no  task  they  shall  be  set  to  do 

But  they  will   ask  God  why.      What 
mean  they  so? 

The  glory  is  not  in  the  task,  but  in 

The  doing  it  for  Him.     What  should 
he  think. 

Brother,  this  man  that  must,  forsooth, 
be  set 

Such  noble  work,  and  suffered  to  be- 
hold 

Its  fruit,  if  he  knew  more  of  us  and 
ours?" 

With  that  the  other  leaned,  as  if  attent : 

"  I    am    not    perfect,   brother,   in   his 
thought." 

The  mystic  bird  replied,  "  Brother,  he 
saith, 

'  But  it  is  nought :  the  work  is  over- 
hard.' 

Whose  fault   is  that?    God  sets    not 
overwork. 


THE  MONITIONS  OF   THE    UNSEEN. 


22S 


He  saith  the  world  is  sorrowful,  and  he 

Is    therefore    sorrowful.      He    cannot 
set 

The  crooked  straight ;  —  but  who  de- 
mands of  him, 

O   brother,    that   he   should?     What! 
tliinks  he,  then. 

His  work  is  God's  advantage,  and  his 
will 

More  bent  to  aid  the  world  than  its 
dread  Lord's. 

Nay,  yet  there  live  amongst  us  legions 
fair, 

Millions  on  millions,  who  could  do 
right  well 

What  he  must  fail  in;  and  'twas  whis- 
pered me. 

That  chiefly  for  himself  the  task  is 
given,  — 

His  little  daily  task."     With  that  he 
paused. 

Then  said  the  other,  preening  its  fair 

wing, 
"  Men   have   discovered  all  God's  is- 
lands now. 
And  given  them  names ;  whereof  they 

are  as  proud. 
And  deem  themselves  as  great,  as  if 

their  hands 
Had  made   them.       Strange  is  man, 

and  strange  his  pride. 
Now,  as  for  us,  it  matters  not  to  learn 
What  and  from  whence  we  be :  How 

should  we  tell  ? 
Our  world   is   undiscovered    in    these 

skies. 
Our  names  not  whispered.     Yet,  for 

us  and  ours, 
What  joy  it  is,  —  permission  to  come 

down. 
Not  souls,  as  he,  to  the  bosom  of  their 

God, 
To  guide,  but  to  their  goal  the  winged 

fowls. 
His    lovely    lower-fashioned    lives    to 

help 
To  take  their  forms  by  legions,  fly,  and 

draw 
With  us  the  sweet,  obedient,  flocking 

things 
That  ever  hear  our  message  reverently. 
And  follow  us  far.     How  should  they 

know  their  way, 


Forsooth,  alone  ?      Men  say  the)  fly 

alone ; 
Yet  some    have  set    on    record,    and 

averred. 
That  they,  among  the  flocks,  had  duly 

marked 
A  leader." 

Then  his  fellow  made  reply : 
"They  might  divine  the  Maker's  heart. 

Come  forth, 
Fair  dove,  to  find  the  flocks,  and  guide 

their  wings, 
For  Him  that  loveth  them." 

With  that,  the  child 
Withdrew    his     hand,    and    all    their 

speech  was  done. 
He    moved    toward    them,    but    they 

fluttered  forth 
And  fled  into  the  sunshine. 

"  I  would  fain," 

Said  he,  "have  heard  some  more. 
And  wilt  thou  go  ?" 

He  added  to  the  child,  for  this  had 
turned. 

"Ay,"  quoth  he,  gently,  "to  the  beg- 
gar's place ; 

For  I  would  see  the  beggar  in  the 
porch." 

So  they  went  down  together  to  the 
door. 

Which,  when  the  curate  opened,  lo! 
without 

The  beggar  sat ;  and  he  saluted  him : 

"  Good  morrow,  master."  "  Where- 
fore art  thou  here.'" 

The  curate  asked:  "it  is  not  service- 
time, 

And  none  will  enter  now  to  give  thee 
alms." 

Then  said  the  beggar,  "  I  have  hope 
at  heart 

That  I  shall  go  to  my  poor  house  no 
more." 

"  Art  thou  so  sick  that  thou  dost  think 
to  die?" 

The  curate  said.  With  that  the  beggar 
laughed, 

And  under  his  dim  eyelids  gathered 
tears, 


2l6 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE    UNSEEN. 


And  he  was  all  a-tremble  with  a  strange 
And  moving  exaltation.     "Ay,"  quoth 

he, 
And  set  his  face  toward  high  heaven : 

"  I  think. 
The  blessing  that   I  wait  on  must  be 

near. " 
Then  said  the  curate,  "  God  be  good  to 

thee." 
And,  straight,  the  little  child  put  forth 

his  hand, 
And  touched  him.     "  Master,  master, 

hush ! 
You  should  not,  master,  speak  so  care- 
lessly 
In  this  great  presence." 

But  the  touch  so  wTought, 
That,  lo !  the  dazzled  curate  staggered 

back. 
For  dread  effulgence  from  the  beggar's 

eyes 
Smote    him,   and    from    the    crippled 

limbs  shot  forth 
Terrible  lights,  as  pure  long  blades  of 

fire. 
"  Withdraw  thy  touch !  withdraw  thy 

touch  !  "  he  cried, 
"Or  else  shall  I  be  blinded."     Then 

the  child 
Stood  back  from  him  ;  and  he  sat  down 

apart. 
Recovering  of  his  manhood:    and  he 

heard 
The  beggar  and  the  child  discourse  of 

things 
Dreadful  for  glory,  til!  his  spirits  came 
Anew ;  and,   when  the  beggar  looked 

on  him. 
He  said,  "  If  I  offend  not,  pray  you  tell 
Who  and  what    are    you,  —  I  behold 

a  face 
Marred  with  old   age,   sickness,    and 

poverty,  — 
A  cripple  with  a  staff,  who  long  hath 

sat 
Begging,  and  ofttimes  moaning,  in  the 

porch , 
For  pain  and  for  the  wind's  inclemency. 
What    are    you?"     Then   the  beggar 

made  reply, 
"  I  v\'as  a  delegate,  a  living  power ; 
My  work  was  bliss,  for  seeds  were  in 

my  hand 


To  plant  a  new-made  world.     O  happy 

work ! 
It  grew  and  blossomed ;  but  my  dwell- 
ing-place 
Was  far  remote  from  heaven.     I  have 

not  seen ; 
I  knew  no  wish  to  enter  there.     But, 

lo! 
There  went  forth  rmnors,  running  out 

like  rays, 
How  some,  that  were  of  power  lilce 

even  to  mine, 
Had  made  request  to  come  and  find  a 

place 
Within  its    walls.      And    these    were 

satisfied 
With  promises,  and  sent  to  this    far 

world 
To  take  the  weeds  of  your  mortality, 
And  minister,  and  suffer  grief  and  pain. 
And  die  like  men.     Then  were  they 

gathered  in. 
They  saw  a  face,  and  were  accounted 

kin 
To  Whom  thou  knowest,  for  He  is  kin 

to  men. 

"Then  I  did  wait ;  and  oft,  at  work,  I 

sang, 
'To  minister  !  oh,  joy,  to  minister!  ' 
And,  it  being  known,  a  message  came 

to  me : 
'  Whether  is  best,  thou  forest-planter 

wise, 
To  minister  to  others,  or  that  they 
Should  minister  to  thee  ?  '     Then,  on 

my  face 
Low  lying,  1  made  answer:   '  It  is  best. 
Most    High,   to  minister;'    and  thus 

came  back 
The  answer,  — '  Choose  not  for  thyself 

the  b3st : 
Go  down,  and,  lo !  my  poor  shall  minis- 
ter. 
Out  of  their  poverty,  to  thee ;    shall 

learn 
Compassion  by  thy  frailty;  and  shall 

oft 
Turn  back,  when  speeding  home  from 

work,  to  help 
Thee,  weak  and  crippled,  home.     My 

little  ones. 
Thou  shalt  importune  for  their  slender 

mite, 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE    UNSEEN. 


And  pray,  and  move  them  that  they 

give  it  up 
For  love  of  Me.'  " 

The  curate  answered  him, 
"Art  thou  content,  O  great  one  from 

afar! 
If  I   may  ask,  and  not  offend?"     He 

said, 
"lam.     Behold!  I  stand  not  all  alone. 
That  I  shouid  think  to  do  a  perfect 

work. 
I   may  not  wish  to  give ;  for  I  have 

heard 
'Tis  best  for  me  that  I  receive.     For 

me, 
God  is  the  only  giver,  and  His  gift 
Is  one."     With  that,    the   little   child 

sighed  out, 
"O   master!     master!     I   am    out    of 

heaven 
Since  noonday,  and  I  hear  them  calling 

me. 
If  you  be  ready,  great  one,  let  us  go  :  — 
Hark!  hark!  they  call." 

Then  did  the  beggar  lift 
His  face  to  heaven,  and  utter  forth  a 

cry 
As  of  the  pangs  of  death,  and  every 

tree 
Moved    as    if    shaken    by    a    sudden 

wind. 
He  cried  again,  and  there  came  forth  a 

hand 
From  some  invisible  form,  which,  being 

laid 
A  little  moment  on  the  curate's  eyes. 
It  dazzled  him  with  light  that  brake 

from  It, 
So  that  he  saw  no  more. 

"What  shall  I  do?" 
The  curate  murmured,  when  he  came 

again 
To    himself    and  looked   about    him. 

"  This  is  strange! 
My  thoughts  are  all  astray ;  and  yet, 

methinks, 
A  weight  is  taken  from  my  heart.     Lo ! 

lo! 
There  lieth  at  my  feet,  frail,  white,  and 

dead. 


The   sometime  beggar.     He  is  happy 

now. 
There  was  a  child ;  but  he  is  gone,  and 

he 
Is  also  happy.     I  am  glad  to  think 
I  am  not  bound  to  make  the  wrong  go 

right ;  ^ 
But  only  to  discover,  and  to  do, 
With  cheerful  heart,  the  work  that  God 

appoints." 

With  that,  he  did  compose,  with  rever- 
ent care. 

The  dead;  continuing,  "  I  will  trust  in 
Him, 

That  He  can  hold  His  own  ;  and  I 
will  take 

His  will,  above  the  work  He  sendeth 
me, 

To  be  my.chiefest  good." 


Then  went  he  forth, 
"  I  shall  die  early,"  thinking :   "  I  am 

warned, 
By  this   fair  vision,   that   I    have   not 

long 
To  live."     Yet  he  lived  on  to  good  old 

age ;  — 
Ay,  he  lives  yet,   and  he  is  working 

still. 


It  may  be  there  are  many  in  like  case : 
They  give  themselves,  and  are  in  misery 
Because  the  gift  is  small,  and  doth  not 

make 
The  world  by  so  much  better  as  they 

fain 
Would  have  it.     'Tis  a  fault ;  but,  as 

for  us, 
Let  us  not  blame  them.     Maybe,  'tis  a 

fault 
More  kindly  looked  on  by  The  Majesty 
Than  our  best  virtues  are.     Why,  what 

are  we ! 
What  have  we  given,  and  what  have  we 

desired 
To  give,  the  w  orld  ? 

There  must  be  something  WTong. 
Look   to   it :    let   us  mend  our  ways. 
Farewell. 


228 


NOT  IN  VAIN  I   WAITED. 


A  BIRTHDAY  WALK. 
(written  for  a  friend's  birthday.) 


"The  days  of  our  life  are  threescore 
years  and  ten." 


A  birthday: — and  now  a  day  that 
rose 
With  much  of  hope,  with  meaning 
rife  — 
A  thoughtful  day  from  dawn  to  close  : 
The  middle  day  of  human  liie. 

In  sloping  fields  on  narrow  plains, 
The    sheep  were    feeding   on   their 
knees. 

As  we  went  through  the  winding  lanes. 
Strewed  with  red  buds  of  alder-trees. 

So  warm  the  day  —  its  influence  lent 
.    To  flagging  thought  a  stronger  wing ; 
So  utterly  was  winter  spent, 

So  sudden  was  the  birth  of  spring. 

Wild    crocus    flowers     in    copse    and 
hedge  — 

In  sunlight,  clustering  thick  below. 
Sighed  for  the  firwood's  shaded  ledge, 

Where  sparkled  yet  a  line  of  snow. 

And  crowded  snowdrops  faintly  hung 
Their  fair  heads  lower  for  the  heat, 

While  in  still  air  all  branches  flung 
Their  shadowy  doubles  at  our  feet. 

And  through  the  hedge  the  sunbeams 
crept. 
Dropped  through  the  maple  and  the 
birch  ; 
And  lost  in  airy  distance  slept 

On   the   broad  tower   of  Tamworth 
Church. 


Then,  lingering  on  the  downward  way, 
A  little  space  we  resting  stood, 

To  watch  tiie  golden  haze  that  lay 
Adown  that  river  by  the  wood. 


A  distance  vague,  the  bloom  of  sleep 
The  constant  sun  had  lent  the  scene, 

A  veiling  charm  on  dingles  deep 

Lay  soft  those  pastoral  hills  between. 

There  are  some  days  that  die  not  out, 
Nor  alter  by  reflection's  power. 

Whose   converse   calm,    whose  words 
devout. 
For  ever  rest,  the  spirit's  dower. 

And  they  are  days  when  drops  a  veil  — 
A  mist  upon  the  distance  past ; 

And   while   we    say  to    peace — "All 
hail!" 
We  hope  that  always  it  shall  last. 

Times  when  the  troubles  of  the  heart 
Are  hushed  —  as  winds  were  hushed 
that  day  — 
And  budding  hopes  begin  to  start. 
Like  those  green  hedgerows  on  our 
way: 

When  all  within  and  all  around. 

Like  hues  on  that  sweet  landscape 
blend, 
And  Nature's  hand  has  made  to  sound 
The  heartstrnigs  that  her  touch  at- 
tend : 

When  there  are  rays  within,  like  those 
That   streamed   through  maple  and 
through  birch. 
And  rested  m  such  calm  repose 

On   the   broad   tower  of  Tamworth 
Church. 


NOT  IN  VAIN  I  WAITED. 

She  was  but  a  child,  a  child. 

And  1  a  man  grown  ; 
Sweet  she  was,  and  fresh,  and  wild, 
And,  1  thought,  my  own. 
What   could    I    do?     The  long  grass 
groweth. 
The  long  wave  floweth  with  a  mur- 
mur on : 
The  why  and  the  wherefore  of  it  all 
who  knoweth  ? 
Ere   1   thought  to  lose  her  she  was 
grown  —  and  gone. 


WITH  A    DIAMOND. 


229 


This  day  or  that  day  in  warm  spring 

weather, 
The  Iamb  that  was  tame  will  yearn  to 

break  its  tether. 
"  But  if  the  world  wound  thee,"  I  said, 

"come  back  to  me, 
Down  in  the  dell   wishing  —  wishing, 

wishing  for  thee." 

The  dews  hang  on  the  white  may. 

Like  a  ghost  it  stands, 
All  in  the  dusk  before  day 
That  folds  the  dim  lands: 
Dark  fell  the  skies  when  once  belated, 
Sad,  and  sorrow-fated,  I  missed  the 
sun ; 
But  wake,  hear*,  and  sing,  for  not  in 
vain  I  waited. 
O  clear,  O  solemn  dawning,  lo,  the 
maid  is  won ! 
Sweet  dews,  dry  early  on  the  grass  and 

clover, 
Lest  the  bride  wet  her  feet  while  she 

walks  over ; 
Shine  to-day,  sunbeams,  and  make  all 

fair  to  see : 
Down  the  deil  she's  coming  —  coming, 
coming  with  me. 


A  GLEANING  SONG. 

"Whither  away,  thou  little  cnreless 
rover? 
(Kind  Roger's  true) 
Whither  away,  across  yon   bents  and 
clover. 
Wet,  wet  with  dew  ? ' ' 
"  Roger  here,  Roger  there  — 

Roger — O,  he  sighed. 
Yet  let  me  glean  among  the  wheat, 
Nor  sit  kmd  Roger's  bride." 

"What  wilt  thou    do  when    all    the 
gleaninn's  ended, 
What  wilt  thou  do? 
The  cold  will  come,  and  fog  and  frost- 
work blended 
(Kind  Roger's  true)." 
"  .Sleet  and  rain,  cloud  and  storm. 

When  they  ceise  to  frown 
I  II  bind  me  primrose  bunches  sweet. 
And  cry  them  up  the  town." 


"What  if  at   last   thy   careless   heart 
awaking 
This  day  thou  rue  ?" 
"I'll  cry  my  flowers,  and  think  for  all 
its  breaking, 
Kind  Roger's  true  ; 
Roger  here,  Roger  there, 
O,  my  true  love  sighed, 
Sigh  once,  once  more,  I'il  stay  my 
feet 
And  rest  kind  Roger's  bride." 


WITH  A   DIAMOND. 

While  Time  a  grim  old  lion  gnawing 
lay. 
And   mumbled  with   his   teeth    yon 
regal  tomb. 
Like   some   immortal   tear  undimmed 
for  aye. 
This  gem  was  dropped  among  the 
dust  of  doom. 

Dropped,    haply,  by  a  sad,  forgotten 
queen, 
A  tear  to  outlast  name,   and  fame, 
and  tongue : 
Her  other  tears,   and   ours,    all   tears 
terrene. 
For  great  new  griefs  to  be  hereafter 
sung. 

Take  it,  —  a  goddess  might  have  wept 
such  tears. 
Or   Dame    Electra    changed   into   a 
star, 
That  waxed  so  dim  because  her  chil- 
dren's years 
In  leaguered  Troy  were  bitter  through 
long  war. 

Not  till  the  end  to  end  to  grow  dull  or 
wTste,  — 
Ah,  what  a  little  while  the  light  we 
share! 
Hand  after  hand  shall  yet  with  this  be 
praced, 
Sign'nir  the  Will  that  leaves  it  to  an 
heir. 


MARRIED  LOVERS. 


FANCY. 

0  FANCY,    if   thou   flyest,   come   bgck 

anon, 

Thy  fluttering  wings  are  soft  as  love's 
first  word, 

And  fragrant  as  the  feathers  of  that 
bird, 
Which  feeds  upon  the  budded  cinna- 
mon 

1  ask  thee  not  to  work,  or  sigh  — play 

on. 
From  nought  that  was  not,  w'as,  oris, 

deterred ; 
The   flax  that   Old   Fate    spun   thy 
flights  have  stirred, 
And  waved  memorial  grass  of  Mara- 
thon. 
Play,  but  be  gentle,  not  as  on  that  day 
I  saw  thee  running  down  the  rims  of 
doom 
With  stars  thou  hadst  been  stealing  — 
while  they  lay 
Smothered    in    liglit    and    blue  — 
cl.asped  to  thy  breast ; 
Bring  rather  to  me  in  the  firelit  room 
A  netted  halcyon  bird  to  sing  of  rest. 


COMPENSATION. 

One    launched    a   ship,    but   she  was 
wrecked  at  sea ; 
He  built  a  bridge,  but  floods  have 
borne  it  down  ; 
He   meant   much   good,    none    came: 
strange  destiny, 
His  corn  lies  sunk,  his  bridge  bears 

none  to  town. 
Yet  eood  he  Jrad  not  meant  became 
his  crown  ; 
For  once  at  work,  when  even  as  nature 
free. 
From  thought  of  good  he  was,  or  of 
renown, 
God  took  the  work  for  good  and  let 

goofl  be. 
So  wakened    with    a  trembling    after 
sleep. 
Dread   Alona   Roa  yields   her  fate- 
ful store ; 
All    gleaming   hot    the    scarlet    rivers 
creep, 


And  fanned  of  great-leaved  palms  slip 

to  the  shore, 
Then  stolen  to  implumbed  wastes  of 
that  far  deep, 
Lay  the  foundations  for  one  island 
more. 


LOOKING  DOWN. 

MotJNTAiNS  of  sorrow,  I  have  heard 
your  moans. 
And  the  moving  of  your  pines ;  but 

we  sit  high 
On    your    green    shoulders,    nearer 
stoops  the  sky. 
And  pure  ans  visit  us  from  all  the  zones. 
Sweet  world  beneath,  too  happy  far 
to  sigh. 
Dost    thou    look    thus    beheld    from 

heavenly  thrones? 
No ;  not  for  all  the  love  that  counts 
thy  stones, 
While  s'.eepy  with  great   light    the 
valleys  lie. 
Strange,  rapturous  peace !  its  sunshine 
doth  enfold 
My  heart ;    I  have  escaped   to  the 
days  divine. 
It  seemeth   as  bygone  ages  back  had 
rolled, 
And  all  the  eldest  past  was  now,  was 
mine ; 
Nay,  even  as  if  Melchizedec  of  old 
Might  here  come  forth  to  us  with 
bread  and  wine. 


MARRIED   LOVERS. 

Come  away,  the  clouds  are  high, 
Put  the  flashing  needles  by. 
Many  days  are  not  to  spare. 
Or  to  waste,  mv  fairest  fair! 
AH  is  ready.     Come  to-day. 
For  the  nig-htineale  her  lay. 
When  she  findeth  that  the  whole 
Of  her  love,  and  all  her  .soul, 
Cannot  fo^-th  of  her  sweet  throat, 
Sobs  the  while  she  dr.aws  her  breath, 
And  the  braverv  of  her  note 
In  a  few  days  altereth. 


A    WINTER  SONG. 


Come,  ere  she  despond,  and  see 
In  a  silent  ecstasy 

Chestnuts  heave  for  hours  and  hours 
All  the  glory  of  their  flowers 
To  the  melting  blue  above, 
That  broods  over  them  like  love. 
Leave  the  garden  walls,  where  blow 
Apple-blossoms  pink,  and  low 
Ordered  beds  of  tulips  fine. 
Seek  the  blossoms  made  divine 
With  a  scent  that  is  their  soul. 
These  are  soulless.     Bring  the  white 
Of  thy  gown  to  bathe  in  light 
Walls  for  narrow  hearts.     The  whole 
Earth  is  found,  and  air  and  sea, 
Not  too  wide  for  thee  and  me. 

Not  too  wide,  and  yet  thy  face 

Gives  the  meaning  of  all  space. 

And  thine  eyes,  with  starbeams  fraught, 

Hold  the  measure  of  all  thought ; 

For  of  them  my  soul  besought, 

And  was  shown  a  glimpse  of  thine  — 

A  veiled  vestal,  with  divine 

Solace,  in  sweet  love"s  despair, 

Fer  that  life  is  brief  as  fair. 

Who  hath  most,  he  yearneth  most, 

Sure,  as  seldom  heretofore. 

Somewhere  of  the  gracious  more. 

Deepest  joy  the  least  shall  boast, 

Askmg  with  new-opened  eyes 

The  remainder  ;  that  which  lies 

O,  so  fair !  but  not  all  conned  — 

O,  so  near !  and  yet  beyond. 

Come,  and  in  the  woodland  sit, 
Seem  a  wonted  part  of  it. 
Then,  while  moves  the  delicate  air. 
And  the  glories  of  thy  hair 
Little  flickering  sun-rays  strike. 
Let  me  see  what  thou  art  like  ; 
For  great  love  enthralls  me  so. 
That,  in  sooth,  I  scarcely  know. 
Show  me,  in  a  house  all  green, 
Save  for  long  gold  wedges'  sheen, 
Where  the  flies,  white  sparks  of  fire. 
Dart  and  hover  and  aspire. 
And  the  leaves,  air-stirred  on  high. 
Feel  such  joy  they  needs  must  sigh, 
And  the  untracked  grass  makes  sweet 
All  fair  flowers  to  touch  thy  feet. 
And  the  bees  about  them  hum. 
All  the  world  is  waiting.     Come ! 


A  WINTER  SONG. 

Came   the   dread    Archer   up    yonder 
lawn  — 
Night  is  the  time  for  the  old  to  die  — 
But  woe  for  an  arrow  that  smote  the 
fawn. 
When   the   hind   that  was  sick  un- 
scathed went  by. 


Father  lay  moaning,   "  Her  faidt  was 
sore 
(Night   is   the   time   when    the    old 
must  die). 
Yet,  ah  to  bless  her,  my  child,  once 
more. 
For  heart   is  failing :    the   end  is 
nigh." 

"Daughter,  my  daughter,  my  girl,"  I 
cried 
(Night  is  the  time  for  the  old  to  die), 
"  Woe    for   the  wish   if  till   morn   ye 
bide"  — 
Dark  was  the  welkin  and  wild  the 
sky. 

Heavily  plunged  from   the  roof  the 
snow  — 
(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  will 
die). 
She  answered,  "  My  mother,  'tis  well, 
I  go." 
Sparkled   the   north  star,  the  WTack 
flew  high. 

First  at  his  head,  and  last  at  his  feet 
(Night   is   the   time   when  the   old 
should  die). 
Kneeling    I   watched  till  his  soul  did 
fleet. 
None  else  that  loved  him,  none  else 
were  nigh. 

I   wept   in   the   night  as  the  desolate 
weep 
(Nitrht  is  the  time  fbr  the  old  to  die), 
Cometh   my  daughter?  the   drifts   are 
deep, 
Acro'is  the  cold  hollows  how  white 
they  lie. 


332 


WISHING. 


1  sought  her  afar  through  the  spectral 
trees 
(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  must 
die), 
The  fells  were  all  muffled,  the  floods 
did  freeze, 
And  a  wrathful  moon   hung  red  in 
the  sky. 

By    night    I   found   her  where   pent 
waves  steal 
(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  should 
'die), 
But  she  lay  stiff  by  the  locked   mill- 
wheel. 
And  the  old  stars  lived  in  their  homes 
on  high. 


BINDING  SHEAVES. 

Hark!  a  lover  binding  slieaves 

To  his  maiden  sings. 
Flutter,  flutter  go  the  leaves, 

Larks  drop  their  wings. 
Little  brooks  for  all  their  mirth 

Are  not  blythe  as  he. 
"  Give  nie  w  lat  the  love  is  worth 

That  I  give  tliee. 


"  Speech  that  cannot  be  forborne 

Tells  the  story  through  : 
I  sowed  my  love  in  with  the  com. 

And  they  both  grew. 
Count  the  world  full  wide  of  girth, 

And  hived  honey  sweet. 
But  count  the  lf)ve  of  more  worth 

Laid  at  thy  feet 


"  Money's  worth  is  house  and  land, 

Velvet  coat  and  vest. 
Work's  worth  is  bread  in  hand, 

Ay,  and  sweet  rest. 
Wilt  thou  learn  what  love  is  worth  ? 

Ah  !   she  sits  above, 
Sighing,  '  Weigh  me  not  with  earth, 

Love's  worth  is  love.'  " 


WORK. 

Like  coral  insects  multitudinous 
The  minutes  are  whereof  our  life  is 

made. 
They  build  it  up  as  in  the  deep's  blue 
shade 
It  grows,  it  comes  to  light,  and  then, 

and  thus 
For  both  there  is  an  end.    The  popu- 
lous 
Sea-blossoms  close,  oiu-  minutes  that 

have  paid 
Life's  debt  of  work  are  spent ;  the 
work  is  laid 
Before  our  feet  that  shall  come  after  us. 
We  may  not  stay  to  watch  if  it  will 
speed. 
The  bard  if  on  some  luter's  string  his 
song 
Live  sweetly  yet ;  the  hero  if  his  star 
Doth    shine.     Work    is   its  own   best 
earthly  meed. 
Else  have   we  none  more  than  the 
sea-bom  throng 
Who  wrought  those  marvellous  isles 
tliat  bloom  afar. 


WISHING. 

When  I  reflect  how  little  I  have  done. 

And  add  to  that  how  little  I   have 

seen. 

Then  furtliermore  how  little  I  ha\-e  won 

Of  joy,  or  good,  how  little  known,  or 

been : 
I  long  for  other  life  more  full,  more 
keen. 
And  yearn  to  change  with  such  as  well 
have  run  — 
Yet  reason  mocks  me  —  nay,  the  soul, 
I  ween, 
Granted    her    choice    would    dare    to 

change  with  none ; 
No,  —  not  to  feel,  as  Blondel  when  his 
lay 
Pierced  the  strong  tower,  and  Rich- 
ard answered  it  — 
No,  not  to  do,  as  Eustace  on  the  day 
He  left  fair  Calais  to  her  weeping 
fit  — 


THE   MARINER'S  CAVE. 


233 


No,  not  to  be,  —  Columbus,  waked  from 

sleep 
When   his   new  worid  rose   from  the 

charmed  deep. 


TO  . 

Strange  was  the  doom  of  Heracles, 
whose  shade 
Had  dwelling  in  dim  Hades  the  un- 

biest, 
While  yet  his  form  and  presence  sat  a 
guest 
With  the  old  immortals  when  the  feast 

was  made. 
Thine  like,  thus  differs  ;  form  and  pres- 
ence laid 
In   this   dim    chamber    of    enforced 

rest, 
It   is   the   unseen   "shade"   which, 
risen,  hath  pressed 
Above  all  heights  where  feet  Olympian 

strayed. 
My  soul  admires  to  hear  thee  speak  ; 
thy  thought 
Falls  from  a  high  place  like  an  Au- 
gust star. 
Or  some  great  eagle  from  his  air-hung 
rings  — 
When    swooping    past  a  snow-cold 
mountain  scar  — 
Down  the  steep  slope  of  a  long  sunbeam 
brought, 
He  stirs  the  wheat  with  the  steerage 
of  his  wings. 


ON    THE    BORDERS    OF    CAN* 
NOCK   CHASE. 

A  COTTAGER  leaned  whispering  by  her 

hives. 
Telling  the  bees  some  news,  as  tJiey 

lit  down. 
And  entered  one  by  one  their  waxen 

town. 
Larks  passioning  hung  o'er  their  brood- 

nig  wives. 
And  all  the  sunny  hills  where  heather 

thrives 


Lay  satisfied  with  peace.     A  stately 

crown 
Of  trees  enringed  the  upper  headland 
brown. 
And  reedy  pools,  wherein  the  moor-hen 

dives. 
Glittered  and  gleamed. 

A  resting-place  for  light, 

They  that  were  bred  here  love  it ;  but 

they  say, 

"  We  shall  not  have  it  long  ;  in  three 

years'  time 

A  hundred  pits  will  cast  out  fires  by 

night, 
Down  yon  still  glen  their  smoke  shall 
trail  its  way. 
And  the  white  ash  lie  thick  in  lieu  of 
nme." 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 

Once  on  a  time  there  walked  a  mariner. 
That  had    been    shipwrecked,  on   a 

lonely  shore, 
And  the  green  water  made  a  restless 

stir, 
And  a  great  flock  of  mews  sped  on 

bafore. 
He  had  nor  food  nor  shelter,  for  the 

tide 
Ro?e  on  the  one,  and  cliffs  on  the  other 

side. 

Brown  cliffs  they  were  ;  they  seemed  to 

pierce  the  sky. 
That   was  an  awful  deep  of  empty 

blue, 
Save  that  the  wind  was  in  it,  and  on 

high 
A  w.wering  skein  of  wild-fowl  tracked 

it  through. 
He  marked  them  not,  but  went  with 

movement  slow. 
Because  his  thoughts   were    sad,    his 

courage  low- 

His  heart  was  numb,  he  neither  wept 
nor  siched, 
But  wearifully  lingered  by  the  wave  ; 


234 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 


Until    at    length    it   chanced  that    he 
espied, 
Far  up,  an  opening  in  the  cliff,  a 
cave, 
A  shelter  where  to  sleep  in  his  distress, 
And  lose  his  sorrow  in  forgetfulness. 

With  that  he  clambered  up  the  rugged 

face 
Of  tliat  steep  cliff  that  all  in  shadow 

lay. 
And,  io,  there  was  a  dry  and  homelike 

place, 
Comforting  refuge  for  the  castaway  ; 
And  he   laid  down  his  weary,  weary 

head. 
And  took  his  fill  of  sleep  till  dawn  waxed 

red. 

When  he  awoke,  warm  stirring  from 
the  south 
Of  delicate  summer  air  did  sough  and 
flow  ; 

He  rose,  "and,  wending  to  the  cavern's 
mouth, 
He  cast  his  eyes  a  little  way  below, 

Where  on  the  narrow  ledges,  sharp  and 
rude, 

Preening  their  wings,  the  blue   rock- 
pigeons  cooed. 

Then  he  looked   lower  and   saw  the 
lavender 
And  sea-thrift  blooming  in  long  crev- 
ices. 

And    the    brown    wallflower  —  April's 
messenger, 
The    wallflower  marshalled  in    her 
companies. 

Then  lower  yet  he  looked  adown  the 
steep, 

And  sheer  beneath    him   lapped    the 
lovely  deep. 

The  laughing  deep ;  —  and  it  was  paci- 
fied 
As  if  it  had  not  raged  that  other  day. 

And  it  went  murmuring  in  the  morn- 
ingtide 
Innumerable  flatteries  on  its  way, 

Kissing   the   cliffs  and  whispering   at 
their  feet 

With  exquisite  advancement,   and  re- 
treat. 


This    when    the    mariner   behe'.d    he 
sighed. 
And  thought  on  his  companions  lying 
low. 

But  while  he  gazed  with  eyes  unsat- 
isfied 
On   the   fair  reaches  of  their  over- 
throw, 

Thinking  it  strange  he  only  lived  of  all, 

But  not  returning  thanks,  he  heard  a 
calll 


A  soft  sweet  call,  a  voice  of  tender  ruth, 
He  thought  it  came  from  out  the  cave. 
And^  lo, 

It  whispered,  "Man,  look  up!"     But 
he,  forsooth. 
Answered,    "I  cannot,  for  the  long 
waves  flow 

Across  my  gallant  ship  where  sunk  she 
lies 

With  all  my  riches  and  my  merchan- 
dise. 


"  Moreover,  I  am  heavy  for  the  fate 
Of  these  my  mariners  drowned  in  the 

deep  ; 
I  must  lament  me  for  their  sad  estate 
Now  they  are  gathered  in  their  last 

long  sleep. 
O!    the   unpitying  heavens  upon   me 

frown. 
Then  how  should  I  look  up  ?  —  I  must 

look  down." 

And   he   stood  yet  watching  the  fair 
green  sea 
Till  "hunger  reached  him  ;   then  he 
made  a  fire, 

A   driftwood   fire,   and  wandered  list- 
lessly 
And  gathered  many  eggs  at  his  de- 
sire, 

And  dressed  them  for  his  meal,  and 
then  he  lay 

And  slept,  and  woke  upon  the  second 
day. 

When  as  he  said,  "  the  cave  shall  be 
my  home ; 
None  will  molest  me,  for  the  brown 
cliffs  rise 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 


235 


Like  castles  of  defence  behind,  —  the 

foam 
Of  the  remorseless  sea  beneath  me 

lies  ; 
'Tis   easy  from  the  cliff    my  food   to 

win,  — 
The  nations  of  the  rock-dove    breed 

therein. 

"  For  fuel,  at  the  ebb  yon  fair  expanse 
Is    strewed   with    driftwood    by  the 
breaking  wave, 
And  in  the  sea  is  fish  for  sustenance. 
I  will  build  up  the  entrance  of  the 
cave. 
And  leave  therein  a  window  and  a  door, 
And  here  will  dwell  and  leave  it  never- 
more." 

Then  even  so  he  did ;  and  when  his 
task. 
Many  long  days  being  over,  was  com- 
plete ; 

When  he  had  eaten,  as  he  sat  to  bask 
In  the  red  firelight  glowing  at  his  feet. 

He  was  right  glad  of  sheker,  and  he 
said, 

"  Now   for   my  comrades   am  I  com- 
forted." 

Then  did  the  voice  awake  and  speak 

again  ; 
It    murmured,    "Man,    look    up!" 

But  he  replied, 
*'  I  cannot.     O,  mine  eyes,  mine  eyes 

are  fain 
Down   on    the    red    wood-ashes    to 

abide 
Because  they  warm    me."     Then  the 

voice  was  still. 
And  left  the  lonely  mariner  to  his  will. 

And  soon  it  came  to  pass  that  he  got 

gain. 
He  had  great  flocks  of  pigeons  which 

he  fed, 
And  drew  great  store  of  fish  from  out 

the  main, 
And   down    from    eiderducks ;     and 

then  he  said, 
"  It  is  not  good  that  I  should  lead  my 

life 
In  silence,  I  will  take  to  me  a  wife." 


He  took  a  wife,  and  brought  her  home 

to  him  ; 
And  he  was  good  to  her  and  cherished 

her 
So   that   she   loved   him ;    then   when 

light  waxed  dim 
Gloom    came    no    more ;    and    she 

would  minister 
To  all  his  wants;  while  he,  being  well 

content. 
Counted  her  company  right  excellent. 

But  once  as  on  the  lintel  of  the  door 
She  leaned  to  watch  him  while  he 

put  to  sea. 
This  happy  wife,  down-gazing  at  the 

shore. 
Said  sweetly,  "  It  is  better  now  with 

me 
Than  it  was  lately  when  I  used  to  spin 
In  my  old  father's  house  beside  the 

lin." 

And  then  the  soft  voice  of  the  cave 
awoke  — 
The  soft  voice  which  had  haunted  it 
erewhile  — 

And  gently  to  the  wife  it  also  spoke, 
"Woman,    look    up!"        But    she, 
with  tender  guile 

Gave  it  denial,  answering,  *'  Nay,  not 
so. 

For  all  that  I  should  look  on  lieth  be- 
low. 

"The   great  sky  overhead  is  not   so 
good 
For  my  two  eyes  as  yonder  stainless 
sea, 

The  source  and  yielder  of  our  liveli- 
hood. 
Where    rocks    his    little    boat    that 
loveth  me." 

Tliis  when  the  wife  had  said  she  moved 
away, 

And  looked  no  higher  than  the  wave 
all  day. 

Now  when  the  year  ran  out  a  child  she 

bore. 
And  there  was  such  rejoicing  in  the 

cave 
As  surely  never  had  there  been  before 


236 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 


Since  God  first  made  it.     Then  full, 

sweet,  and  grave, 
The  voice,    "  God"s    utmost    blessing 

brims  thy  cup, 
O,  father  o£  this  child,  look  up,  look 

up!" 

"  Speak  to  my  wife,"  the  mariner  re- 
plied. 
"  I  have  much  work  —  right  welcome 
work  'tis  true  — 

Another  mouth  to  feed."     And  then  it 
sighed, 
"  Woman,   look  up !  "       She    said, 
"  Make  no  ado, 

For  I   must  needs  look  down,  on  any- 
wise, 

My  heaven  is  in  the  blue  of  these  dear 
eyes." 

The   seasons  of  the  year  did   swiftly 

whirl. 
They   measured  time   by  one  small 

life  alone ; 
On  such    a    day    the  pretty  pushing 

pearl 
That  mouth  they  loved  to  kiss  had 

sweetly  shown, 
That  smiling  mouth,  and  it  had  made 

essay 
To  give  them  names  on  such  another 

day. 

And  afterward  his  infant  history, 

Whether  he  played  with  baubles  on 

the  floor, 
Or  crept  to  pat  the  rock-doves  pecking 

nis;h, 
And  feeding  on  the  threshold  of  the 

door, 
They  loved  to  mark,  and  all  his  mar- 

vellings  dim. 
The  mysteries  that  beguiled  and  baffled 

him. 

He  was  so  sweet,  that  oft  his  mother 
said, 
"  O,  child,  how  was  it  that  I   dwelt 
content 
Before  thou  camest?     Blessings  on  thy 
head. 
Thy  pretty  talk  it  is  so  innocent, 


That  oft  for  all  my  joy,  though  it  be 

deep, 
When  thou  art  prattling,  I  am  like  to 

weep." 

Summer  and  winter  spent  themselves 
again. 
The  rock-doves  in  their  season  bred, 
the  Cliff 

Grew  sweet,  for  every  cleft  would  enter- 
tain 
Its  tuft  of  blossom,  and  the  manner's 
skiff. 

Early   and    late,  would  linger   in    the 
bay, 

Because  the  sea  was  calm  and  winds 
away. 

The    little    child    about    that    rocky 
height. 
Led  by  her  loving  hand  who  gave 
him  birth. 

Might  wander  in  the  clear  unclouded 
light. 
And  takes  his  pastime  in  the  beau- 
teous earth ; 

Smell  the  fair  flowers  in  stony  cradles 
swung. 

And  see   God's  happy  creatures  feed 
their  young. 

And  once  it  came  to  pass,  at  eventide, 
His  mother  set  him  in  the  cavern 

door, 
And  filled  his  lap  with  grain,  and  stood 

aside 
To    watch    the    circling    rock-doves 

soar,  and  soar, 
Then  dip,   alight,  and  run  in  circling 

bands. 
To  take  the  barley  from  his  open  hands. 

And  even  while  she  stood  and  gazed  at 

him, 
And   his  grave  father's   eyes  upon 

him  dwelt. 
They  heard  the   tender   voice,  and   it 

was  dim. 
And  seemed  full  softly  in  the  air  to 

melt ; 
"Father,"   it   murmured,    "Mother, 

dving  away, 
"Look 'up,   white   yet   the   hours   are 

called  to-day." 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 


237 


"I  will,"  the  father  answered,   "but 
not  now  ;" 
The  mother  said,  "  Sweet  voice,  O 
speak  to  me 

At   a   convenient   season."      And   the 
brow 
Of  the  cliff  began  to  quake  right  fear- 
fully, 

There  was  a  rending  crash,  and  there 
did  leap 

A  riven  rock  and  plunge  into  the  deep. 

They  said,  "  A  storm  is  coming  ;  "  but 
they  slept 
That  night  in  peace,  and  thought  the 
storm  had  passed, 
For  there  was  not  a  cloud  to  intercept 
The  sacred  moonlight  on  the  cradle 
cast ; 
And  to  his  rocking  boat  at   dawn   of 

day. 
With  joy  of  heart  the  mariner  took  his 
•  way. 

But  when  he  mounted  up  the  path  at 
night, 
Foreboding  not  of   trouble   or   mis- 
chance, 

His  wife  came  out  into  the  fading  light. 
And  met  him  with  a  serious  counte- 
nance ; 

And  she  broke  out  in  tears  and  sob- 
bings thick, 

"The  child  is  sick,  my  little  child  is 
sick." 

They  knelt  beside   him   in  the  sultry 

dark. 
And  when  the  moon  looked  in  his  face 

was  pale, 
And  when  the  red  sun,  like  a  burning 

barque, 
Rose  in  a  fog  at  sea,  his  tender  wail 
Sank  deep  into  their  hearts,  and  pite- 

ously 
They  fell  to  chiding  of  their  destiny. 

The  doves  unheeded  cooed  that  live- 
long (lay. 
Their  pretty  playmate  cared  for  them 
no  more ; 

The  sea-thrift  nodded,  wet  with  glis- 
tening spray, 


None  gathered  it ;  the  long  wave 
washed  the  shore  ; 

He  did  not  know,  nor  lift  his  eyes  to 
trace. 

The  new  fallen  shadow  in  his  dwelling- 
place. 

The  sultry  sun  beat  on  the  cliffs  all 
day. 
And  hot  calm  airs  slept  on  the  pol- 
ished sea. 

The  mournful  mother  wore  her  time 
away, 
Bemoaning  of  her  helpless  misery, 

Pleading  and  plaining,  till  the  day  was 
done, 

"  O  look  on  me,  my  love,  my  little  one. 


"  What  aileth  thee,  that  thou  dost  lie 
and  moan  ? 
Ah,  would  that  I  might  bear  it  in  thy 
stead." 

The  father  made  not  his  forebodings 
known. 
But  gazed,  and  in  his  secret  soul  he 
said, 

"  I  may  have  sinned,  on  sin  waits  pun- 
ishment, 

But  as  for  him,  sweet  blameless  inno- 
cent, 

"  What  has  he  done  that  he  is  stricken 

down  ? 
O   it   is  hard  to   see  him   sink  and 

fade, 
When  I,  that  counted  him  my  dear  life's 

crown, 
So  willingly  have  worked  while  he 

has  played  ; 
That  he  might  sleep,  have  risen,  come 

storm,  come  heat. 
And  thankfully  would  fast  that  he  might 

eat." 

My  God,  how  short   our  happy  days 
appear ! 
How   long   the    sorrowful!     They 
thouL'ht  it  long, 
The  sultry  morn  that  brought  such  evil 
ch  eer, 
And  sat,  and  wished,  and  sighed  for 
evensong ; 


238 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 


It  came,  and  cooling  wafts  about  him 

stirred, 
Yet  when  they  spoke  he  answered  not 

a  word. 

"  Take  heart,"  they  cried,  but  their  sad 

hearts  sank  low 
When  he  would  moan  and  turn  his 

restless  head, 
And  wearily  the  lagging  morns  would 

S°' 
And  nights,  while  they  sat  watching 

by  his  bed. 
Until  a  storm  came  up  with  wind  and 

rain, 
And  lightning  ran  along  the  troubled 

mam. 

Over  their  heads  the  mighty  thunders 

brake. 
Leaping    and    tumbling   down  from 

rock  to  rock. 
Then  burst  anew  and  made  the  cliffs  to 

quake 
As  they  were  living  things  and  felt 

the  shock  ; 
The  waiting  sea  to  sob  as  if  in  pain, 
And  all   the   midnight   vault    to    ring 

again. 

A  lamp  was  burning  in  the  mariners 

cave. 
But  the  blue  lightning  flashes  made 

it  dim  ; 
And  when   the    mother    heard    those 

thunders  rave. 
She  took  her  little  child  to  cherish 

him ; 
She  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  on  her 

breast 
Full  wearily  she  courted  him  to  rest. 

And  soothed  him  long  until  the  storm 
was  spent, 
And  the  last  thunder  peal  had  died 
away. 

And  stars  were  out  in  all  the  firmament. 
Then  did  he  cease  to  moan,  and  slum- 
bering lay. 

While  in  the  welcome  silence,  pure  and 
deep. 

The    care-worn    parents    sweetly    fell 
asleep. 


And  in  a  dream,  enwrought  with  fan- 
cies thick, 
The  mother  thought  she  heard  the 
rock-doves  coo 

(She  had  forgotten  that  her  child  was 
sick), 
And   she  went  forth  their  morning 
meal  to  strew  ; 

Then   over  all   the  cliff  with  earnest 
care 

She  sought  her  child,  and  lo,  he  was 
not  there ! 

But  she  was  not  afraid,  though  long  she 

sought 
And  climbed  the  cliff,  and  set  her  feet 

in  glass. 
Then  reached  a  river,  broad  and  full, 

she  thought, 
And  at  its  brink  he  sat.     Alas  !  alas! 
For  one  stood  near  him,  fair  and  unde- 

fi!ed. 
An  innocent,  a  marvellous  man-child. 

In  garments  white  as  wool,  and  O,  most 

fair, 
A  rainbow  covered  him  with  mystic 

light ; 
Upon  the  warmed  grass  his  feet  were 

bare, 
And  as  he  breathed,  the  rainbow  in 

her  sight 
In  passions  of  clear  crimson  trembling 

lay. 
With  gold  and  violet  mist  made  fair  the 

day. 

Her  little  life!  she  thought,  his  little 

hands 
Were  full  of  flowers  that  he  did  play 

withal  ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  boy  o'  the  golden 

lands, 
And  looked  him  in  the  face,  he  let 

them  fall, 
Held  through   a   rapturous    pause    in 

wistful  wise 
To  the  sweet  strangeness  of  those  keen 

child-eyes. 

"  Ah,  dear  and  awful  God,  who  chasten- 
est  me. 
How  shall  my  soul  to  this  be  recon- 
ciled. 


A    REVERIE. 


239 


It  is  the  Saviour  of  the  world,"  quoth 

she, 
"  And  to  my  child  He  Cometh  as  a 

child." 
Then  on  her  knees  she  fell  by  that  vast 

stream  — 
Oh,    it   was    sorrowful,    this   woman's 

dream ! 

For  lo,  that  Elder  Child  drew  nearer 

now. 
Fair  as  the  light,  and  purer  than  the 

sun. 
The  calms  of  heaven  were  brooding  on 

his  brow, 
And  in  his  arms  He  took  her  little 

one. 
Her  child,  that   knew  her,   but   with 

sweet  demur 
Drew  back,  nor  held  his  hands  to  come 

to  her. 

With  that  in  mother  misery  sore  she 
wept  — 
"  O  Lamb  of  God,  I  love  my  child 
so  MUCH  ! 

He  stole  away  to  Thee  while  we  two 

slept. 
But  give  him  back,  for  Thou  hast 

many  such  ; 
And  as  for  me    I    have   but   one.     O 

deign. 
Dear    Pity   of  God,   to  give   him   me 

again." 

His  feet  were  on  the  river.     Oh,  his 
feet 
Had  touched  the  river  now,  and  it 
was  great ; 

And  yet  He  hearkened  when  she  did 
entreat. 
And  turned  in  quietness  as  He  would 
wait  — 

Wait  till  she  looked  upon  Him,  and  be- 
hold. 

There  lay  a  long  way  off  a  city  of  gold. 

Like  to  a  jasper  and  a  sardine  stone, 
Whelmed  in  the  rainbow  stood  that 

fair  man-child, 
Mighty  and  innocent,    that   held  her 

own, 


And  as  might  be  his  manner  at  home 

he  smiled. 
Then  while  she  looked  and  looked,  the 

vision  brake, 
And  all  amazed  she  started  up  awake. 

And  lo,   her  little  child  was  gone  in- 
deed ! 
The  sleep  that  knows  no  waking  he 
had  slept, 

Folded  to  heaven's  own  heart ;  in  rain- 
bow brede 
Clothed  and  made  glad,  while  they 
two  mourned  and  wept. 

But  in  the  drinking  of  their  bitter  cup 

The  sweet  voice  spoke  once  more,  and 
sighed,  "  Look  up '  " 

They  heard,  and  straightway  answered, 

"  Even  so : 
For  what  abides  that  we  should  look 

on  liere? 
The  heavens  are  better  than  this  earth 

below, 
They  are  of  more  account  and  far 

more  dear. 
We  will  look  up,  for  all  most  sweet  and 

fair. 
Most  pure,  most  excellent,  is  garnered 

there." 


A   REVERIE. 

When  I  do  sit  apart 
And  commune  with  my  heart, 
She  brings  me  forth  the  treasures  once 
my  own ; 
Shows  me  a  happy  place 
Where  leaf-buds  swelled  apace. 
And  wasting  rims  of  snow  in  sunlight 
shone. 

Rock,  in  a  mossy  glade, 
The  larch-trees  lend  thee  .shade, 
That  ju.st  begin  to  feather  with  their 
leaves ; 
From  out  thy  crevice  deep 
White  tufts  of  snowdrops  peep. 
And  melted  rime  drips  softly  from  thine 
eaves. 


240 


THE  SNOWDROP  MONUMENT. 


Ah,  rock,  I  know,  I  know 
That  yet  thy  snowdrops  grow, 
And    yet    doth    sunshine    fleck    them 
through  the  tree, 
Whose  shehering  branches  hide 
The  cottage  at  its  side. 
That  nevermore  will  shade  or  shelter 
me. 

I  know  the  stockdoves'  note 
Athwart  the  glen  doth  float  : 
With  sweet  foreknowledge  of  her  twins 
oppressed. 
And  longings  onward  sent, 
She  broods  before  the  event. 
While  leisurely  she  mends  her  shallow 
nest. 

Once  to  that  cottage  door, 
In  happy  days  of  yore, 
My   little   love  made  footprints  in  the 
snow. 
She  was  so  glad  of  spring, 
She  helped  the  birds  to  sing, 
I  know  she  dwells  there  yet  —  the  rest 
I  do  not  know. 

They  sang,  and  would  not  stop. 
While  drop,  and  drop,  and  drop, 
I  heard  the   melted  rime  in  sunshine 
fall ; 
And  narrow  wandering  rills, 
Where  leaned  the  daffodils. 
Murmured  and  murmured  on,  and  that 
was  all. 

I  think,  but  cannot  tell, 
I  think  she  loved  pie  well. 
And  some  dear  fancy  with  my  future 
twined. 
But  I  shall  never  know, 
Hope  faints,  and  lets  it  go. 
That  passionate  want  forbid  to  speak 
Its  mind. 


DEFTON   WOOD. 

I  he:,d  my  way  through  Defton  Wood, 

And  on  to  Wandor  Hall  ; 
The  dancing  leaf  let  down  the  light, 

la  hovering  spots  to  fall. 


"  O  young,    young  leaves,  you  match 
me  well," 

My  heart  was  merry,  and  sung  — 
"  Now  wish  me  joy  of  my  sweet  youth  ; 

My  love  —  she,  too,  is  young! 

O  so  many,  many,  many 

Little  homes  above  my  head! 
O  so  many,  many,  many 

Dancing    blossoms    round    me 
spread! 
O  so  many,  many,  many 

Maidens  sighing  yet  for  none! 
Speed,    ye    wooers,    speed    with 
any  — 

Speed  with  all  but  one." 

I  took  my  leave  of  Wandor  Hall, 

And  trod  the  woodland  ways. 
"  What  shall  I  do  so  long  to  bear 

The  burden  of  my  days?" 
I  sighed  my  heart  into  the  boughs 

Whereby  the  culvers  cooed  ; 
For  only  I  between  tliem  went 

Unwooing  and  unwooed. 

"  O  so  many,  many,  many 

Lilies  bending  stately  heads! 
O  so  many,  many,  many 

Strawberries    ripened    on    their 
beds! 
O  so  many,  many,  many 

Maids,  and  yet  nly  heart  undone ! 
What  to  me  are  all,  are  any  — 

1  have  lost  my  —  one." 


THE  SNOWDROP  MONUMENT 
(I 71  Lichfield  Cathedral). 

Marvels  of  sleep,  grown  cold! 
Who  hath  not  longed  to  fold 
With   pitying  ruth,    forgetful  of  their 
bliss, 
Those  cherub  forms  that  lie. 
With  none  to  watch  them  nigh, 
Or  touch  the  silent  lips  with  one  warm 
human  kiss? 


AN  ANCIENT  CHESS  KING. 


341 


What!  they  are  left  alone 
All  night  with  graven  stone. 
Pillars    and   arches  that  above  them 
meet ; 
While    through    those    windows 

high 
The  journeying  stars  can  spy, 
And   dim   blue   moonbeams    drop    on 
their  uncovered  feet  ? 

O  cold !  yet  look  again, 
There  is  a  wandering  vein 
Traced  in  the  hand  where  those  white 
snowdrops  lie. 
Let  her  rapt  dreamy  smile 
The  wondering  heart  beguile, 
That  almost  thinks  to  hear  a  calm  con- 
tented sigh. 

What  silence  dwells  between 
Those  severed  lips  serene ! 
The  rapture  of  sweet  waiting  breathes 
and  grows. 
What  trance-like  peace  is  shed 
On  her  reclining  head, 
And  e'en  on  listless  feet  what  languor 
of  repose ! 

Angels  of  joy  and  love 
Lean  softly  from  above 
And  whisper  to  her  sweet  and  marvel- 
lous things ; 
Tell  of  the  golden  gate 
That  opened  wide  doth  wait. 
And  shidow  her  dim  sleep  with  their 
celestial  wings. 

Hearing  of  that  blest  shore 

She  thinks  on  earth  no  more. 
Contented  to  forego  this  wintry  land. 

She  has  nor  thought  nor  care 

But  to  rest  calmly  there, 
And   hold   the  snowdrops  pale  that 
blossom  in  her  hand. 

But  on  the  other  face 
Broodeth  a  mournful  grace, 
This  had  foreboding  thoughts  beyond 
her  years. 
While  sinking  thus  to  sleep 
She  saw  her  mother  weep. 
And  could   not   lift   her   hand  to   dry 
those  heart-sick  tears. 


Could  not  —  but  failing  lay. 
Sighed  her  young  life  away. 
And  let  her  arm  drop  down  in  listless 
rest. 
Too  weary  on  that  bed 
To  turn  her  dying  head, 
Or  fold  the  little  sister  nearer  to  her 
breast. 

Yet  this  is  faintly  told 
On  features  fair  and  cold, 
A  look  of  calm  surprise,  of  meek  re- 

As  if  with  life  oppressed 
She  turned  her  to  her  rest, 
But  felt  her  mother's  love  and  looked 
not  to  forget. 

How  wistfully  they  close. 
Sweet  eyes,  to  their  repose! 

How  quietly  declines  the  placid  brow! 
The  young  lips  seem  to  say, 
"  I  have  wept  much  to-day. 

And  felt  some  bitter  pains,   but  they 
are  over  now." 

Sleep!  there  are  left  below 
Many  who  pine  to  go, 
Many  who  lay   it  to   their  chastened 
souls. 
That  gloomy  days  draw  nigh, 
And  they  are  blest  who  die. 
For  this  green  world  grows  worse  the 
longer  that  she  rolls. 

And  as  for  me  I  know 
A  little  of  her  woe. 
Her   yearning   want  doth   in   my  soul 
abide, 
And  sighs  of  them  that  weep, 
"  O  put  us  soon  to  sleep. 
For  when  we  wake  —  with  Thee  —  we 
shall  be  satisfied." 


AN   ANCIENT   CHESS    KING. 

Haply  some  Rajah  first  in  the  ages 

gone 
Amid  liis  languid  ladies  fingered  thee, 
While  a  black  nightingale,  sun-swart 

as  he, 


H2 


THE  LONG   WHITE   SEAM. 


Sang  his  one  wife,  love's  pjissionate 
oraison ; 

Haply  thou  may' St  have  pleased  Old 
Prester  John 
Among  his  pastures,  when  fuU  roy- 
ally 
He  sat  in  tent,  grave  shepherds  at 
his  knee, 

While   lamps  of  balsam  winked    and 
glimmered  on. 

What  doest  thou  here?    Thy  masters 
are  all  dead ; 
My  heart  is  full  of  ruth  and  yearning 
pain 

At  sight  of  thee  ;  O  king  that  hast  a 
crown 
Outlasting  theirs,  and  teli'st  of  great- 
ness fled 

Through    cloud-hung    nights  of   una- 
bated rain 

And  niurnmrs  of    the    dark    majestic 
town. 


COMFORT   IN  THE   NIGHT. 

She  thoujclit  by  heaven's  high  wall  that 

she  did  stray 

Till  she  beheld  the  everlasting  gate: 

And  she  climbed  up  to  it  to  long, 

and  wait. 

Feel  with  her  hands  (for  it  was  night), 

and  lay 
Her  lips  to  it  with   kisses;    thus   to 
pray 
That  it  might  open  to  her  aesolate. 
And  lo !   it  trembled,  lo  !  her  passion- 
ate 
Crying  prevailed.     A  little,  little  way 
It  opened:  there  fell  out  a  thread  of 
light. 
And  she  saw  winged  wonders  move 
within  ; 
Also  she  heard  sweet  talking  as  they 

meant 
To  comfort   her.     They  said,    "  Who 
comes  to-night 
Shall  one  day  certainly  an  entrance 
win :" 
Then  the  gate  closed  and  she  awoke 
content. 


THOUGH  ALL  GREAT  DEEDS. 

Though  all  great  deeds  were  proved 
but  fables  fine, 
Though  earth's  old  story  coidd  be 

told  anew. 
Though  the  sweet  fashions  loved  of 
them  that  sue 
Were   empty  as  the  ruined  Delphian 

shrine  — 
Though  God  did  never  man,  in  words 
benign. 
With  sense  of  His  great  Fatherhood 

endue,  — 
Though  life  immortal  were  a  dream 
untrue. 
And  He  that  promised  it  were  not  di- 
vine — 
Though  soul,  though  spirit  were  not, 
and  all  hope 
Reaching  beyond  the  bourn,  melted 
away  ; 
Though  virtue  had  no  goal  and  good  no 
scope. 
But  both  were  doomed  to  end  with 
this  our  clay  — 
Though  all  these  were  not,  —  to  the  un- 

graced  heir 
Would  this  remain,  —  to  live,  as  though 
they  were. 


THE   LONG   WHITE   SEAM. 

As  I  came  roimd  the  harbor  buoy. 

The  lights  began  to  gleam, 
No  wave  the  land-locked  water  stirred. 

The  crags  were  white  as  cream  ; 
And  I  marked  my  love  by  candle-light 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 
It's  aye  sewing  ashore,  my  dear, 

Watch  and  steer  at  sea. 
It's   reef  and  furl,    and   haul  the 
line, 
Set  sail  and  think  of  thee. 

I  climbed  to  reach  her  cottage  door ; 

O  sweetly  my  love  sings ! 
Like  a  shaft  of  light  her  voice  breaks 
forth. 

My  sou.  to  meet  it  springs 


AN  OLD   WIFE'S  SONG. 


243 


As  the  shining  water  leaped  of  old, 

When  stirred  by  angel  wings. 

Aye  longing  to  list  anew, 

Awake  and  in  my  dream. 
But  never  a  song  she  sang  like  this, 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

Fair  fall  the  lights,  the  harbor  lights, 

That  brought  me  in  to  thee, 
And  peace  drop  down  on  that  low  roof 

For  the  sight  that  I  did  see, 
And  the  voice,  my  dear,  that  rang  so 
clear 
All  for  the  love  of  me. 

For  O,  for  O,  with  brows  bent  low 
By  the  candle's  flickering  gleam. 
Her   wedding    gown    it    was    she 
wrought. 
Sewing  the  long  white  seam. 


AN  OLD   WIFE'S    SONG. 

And  what  will  ye  hear,  my  daughters 
dear? — 
Oh,  what  will  ye  hear  this  night  ? 
Shall  I  sing  you  a  song  of  the  yuletide 
cheer. 
Or  of  lovers  and  ladies  bright  ? 


"Thou  shalt  sing,"  they  say  (for  we 

dwell  far  away 
From  the  land  where  fain  would  we  be), 
"Thou  shalt  sing  us  again  some  o.d- 

world  strain 
That  is  sung  in  our  own  countrie. 

"Thou  shalt  mind  us  so  of  the  times 

long  ago, 

When  we  walked  on  the  upland  lea. 

While  the  old  harbor  light  waxed  faint 

in  the  white. 

Long  rays  shooting  out  from  the  sea  ; 

"  While  lambs  were  yet  asleep,  andthe 
dew  lay  deep  ^ 

On  the  grass,  and  their  fleeces  clean 
and  fair. 
Never  grass  was  seen  so  thick  nor  so 
green 
As  tile  grass  that  grew  up  there ! 


"  In  the  town  was  no  smoke,  for  none 
there  awoke  — 
At  our  feet  it  lay  still  as  still  could 
be; 
And  we  saw  far  below  the  long  river 
flow. 
And  the  schooners  a-warping  out  to 
sea. 

''  Sing  us  now  a  strain  shall  make  us 
feel  again 
As  we  felt  in  that  sacred  peace  of 
morn. 
When  we  had  the  first  view  of  the  wet 
sparkling  dew, 
In  the  shyness  of  a  day  just  born." 

So  I   sang  an  old  song  —  it  was  plain 
and  not  long  — 
I   had  sung  it   very   oft  when   they 
were  small ; 
And  long  ere  it  was  done  they  wept 
every  one: 
Yet  this  was  all  the  song  —  this  was 
all:  — 

The   snow  lies  white,   and  the  moon 
gives  light, 

I'll   out  to  the  freezing  mere, 
And  ease  my  heart  with  one  little  song, 

For  none  will  be  nigh  to  hear. 

And  it's  O  my  love,  my  love ! 

And  it's  O  my  dear,  my  dear! 
It's  of  her  that   I'll  sing  till  the  wild 
woods  ring. 

When  nobody  s  nigh  to  hear. 

My   love  is  young,   she   is  young,  is 
young ; 
When  she  laughs  the  dimple  dips. 
We  walked  in  the  wind,  and  her  long 
locks  blew    ^ 
Till  sweetly  they  touched  my  lips. 
And  I'll  out  to  the  freezing  mere. 
Where  the  stiff  reeds  whistle  so  low. 
And  I'll  tell  my  mind  to  the  friendly 
wind. 
Because  I  have  loved  her  so. 

Ay,  and  she's  true,  my  lady  is  true ! 

And  that's  the  best  of  it  all ; 
And  when   she  blushes   my   heart  so 
yearns 


244 


SLEEP. 


That  tears  are  ready  to  fall. 
And  it's  O  my  love,  my  love! 
And  it's  O  my  dear,  my  dear ! 
It's  of  her  that  I'll  sing  till  the  wild 
woods  ring. 
When  nobody's  nigh  to  hear.  ; 


COLD  AND  QUIET. 

Cold,  my  dear,  —  cold  and  quiet. 

In  their  cups  on  yonder  lea. 
Cowslips  fold  the  brown  bee's  diet ; 
So  the  moss  enfoldeth  thee. 
"Plant  me,  plant  me,   O  love,  a  lily 
flower  — 
Plant   at  my   head,    I    pray  you.   a 
green  tree  ; 
And   when   our   children    sleep,"    she 
sighed,   "at  the  dusk  hour. 
And  when  the  lily  blossoms,  O  come 
out  to  me  1 ' 

Lost,  my  dear  ?     Lost  1   nay,  deepest 

Love  is  that  which  loseth  least ; 
Through   the  night-time  while  thou 
sleepest. 
Still  I  watch  the  shrouded  eist. 
Near  thee,  near  thee,  my  wife  that  aye 
liveth, 
"  Lost "  is  no  word  for  such  a  love  as 
mine ; 
Love  from  her  past  to  me  a  present 
giveth, 
And  love  itself  doth  comfort,  making 
pain  divine. 

Rest,  my  dear,  rest.    Fairshoweth 
That  which  was,  and  not  in  vain 
Sacred  have  I  kept,  God  knoweth. 
Love's    last    words     at  ween    us 
twain. 
"Hold  by  our  past,  my  only  love,  my 
lover ; 
Fall  not,  but  rise,  O  love,  by  loss  of 
me !  "' 
Boughs  from  our  garden,  white  with 
bloom  hang  over. 
Love,  now  the  children  slumber,   I 
come  out  to  thee. 


A  SNOW   MOUNTAIN. 

Can  I  make  white  enough  my  thought 
for  thee. 
Or  wash  my  words  in  light?    Thou 
hast  no  mate 
To  sit  aloft  in  the  silence  silently 

And  twin  those  matchless  heights  un- 
desecrate. 
Reverend  as  Lear,  when,  lorn  of  shel- 
ter, he 
Stood,  with  his  old  white  head,  sur- 
prised at  fate ; 
Alone  as  Galileo,  when,  set  free. 

Before  the  stars  he  mused  disconso- 
late. 
Ay,  and  remote,  as  the  dead  lords  of 
song. 
Great   masters  who  have  made    us 
what  we  are. 
For  thou  and  they  have  taught  us  how 
to  long 
And  feel  a  sacred  want  of  the  fair  and 
far: 
Reign,  and  keep  life  in  this  our  deep 

desire  — 
Our  only  greatness  is  that  we  aspire. 


SLEEP. 


(a  woman  speaks.) 

O  SLEEP,   we  are   beholden  to   thee, 

sleep, 
Thou  bearest  angels  to  us    in    the 

night, 
Saints   out   of  heaven   with    palms. 

Seen  by  thy  light 
Sorrow   is   some   old  tale    that    goelh 

not  deep ; 
Love  is  a  pouting  child.     Once  I  did 

sweep 
Through    space  with   thee,   and  lo, 

a  dazzling  sight  — 
Stars!     They  came  on,   I  felt  their 

drawing  and  might ; 
And  some  had  dark  companions.    Once 

(I  weep 
When  I  remember  that)  we  sailed  the 

tide. 
And  found  fair   isles,    where   no   isles 

used  to  bide, 


LOVE. 


245 


And  met  there  my  lost  love,  who  said 

to  me, 
Tliaf  t-was  a  long  mistake  :  lie  had  not 

died. 
Sleep,  in  the    world   to   come  how 

strange  'twill  be 
Never  to  want,   never  to  wish  for 

thee ! 


PROMISING. 

(a  man  speaks.) 

Once,  a  new  world,  the  sun-swart  mar- 
inere, 
Columbus,  promised,  and  was  sore 
w^ithstood, 
Ungraced,  unhelped,  unheard  for  many 
a  year ; 
But  let  at  last  to  make  his  promise 
good. 
Promised   and  promising   I  go,   most 
dear, 
To  better  my  dull  heart  with  love's 
sweet  feud. 
My  life  with  its  most  reverent  hope 
and  fear. 
And  my  religion,  with  fair  gratitude. 
O  we  m.ust  part ;  the  stars  for  me  con- 
tend, 
And  all  the  winds  that  blow  on  all 
the  seas. 
Through  wonderful  waste  places  I  must 
wend. 
And  with  a  promise  my  sad  soul  ap- 
pease. 


Promise  then,  promise  much  of  far-ofT 

bliss ; 
But  —  ah,  for  present  joy,  give  me  one 

kiss. 


LOVE. 


Who  veileth  love  should  first  have  van- 

?uished  fate, 
olded  up  the  dream  in  her  deep 
heart. 
Her  fair  full  lips  were  silent  on  that 
smart, 
Thick  fringed  eyes  did  on  the  grasses 

wait. 
What  good?  one  eloquent  blush,  but 
one,  and  straight 
The  meaning  of  a  life  was  known ; 

for  art 
Is  often  foiled   in   playing  nature's 
part. 
And   time   holds   nothing   long   invio- 
late. 
Earth's    buried    seed    springs    up  — 

slowly,  or  fast : 
The  ring  came  home,  that  one  in  ages 
past 
Flung  to  the  keeping  of  unfathomed 

seas: 
And  golden  apples  on   the    mystic 
trees 
Were  sought  and  found,   and    borne 
away  at  last, 
Though  watched  of  the  divine  Hes- 
perides. 


246  ON  THE  DEATHS  OF  THREE   CHILDREN. 


POEMS 

IVritten  07t  tJie  Deaths  of  Three  Lovely  Children  who  were  taken  front  their 
Parentis  within  a  month  of  otie  another. 


HENRY, 

AGED   EIGHT  YEARS. 

Yellow  leaves,  how  fast  they  flutter  —  woodland  hollows  thickly  strewing, 

Where  the  wan  October  sunbeams  scantly  in  the  mid-day  win, 
While  the  dim  gray  clouds  are  drifting,  and  in  saddened  hues  imbuing 
All  without  and  all  within ! 

All  within!  but  winds  of  autumn,  little  Henry,  round  their  dwelling 

Did  not  load  your  father's  spirit  with  those  deep  and  burdened  sighs  ;  — 
Only  echoed  thoughts  of  sadness,  in  your  mother's  bosom  swelling. 
Fast  as  tears  that  dim  her  eyes. 

Life  is  fraught  with  many  changes,  checked  with  sorrow  and  mutation, 

But  no  grief  it  ever  lightened  such  a  truth  before  to  know  :  — 
I  behold  them  —  father,  mother  —  as  they  seemed  to  contemplation, 
Only  three  short  weeks  ago ! 

Saddened  for  the  morro\v's  parting  —  up  the  stairs  at  midnight  stealing  — 

As  with  cautious  foot  we  gUded  past  the  children's  open  door,  — 
"Come  in  here,"  they  said,  the  lamplight  dimpled  forms  at  last  revealing, 
"  Kiss  them  in  their  sleep  once  more." 

You  were  sleeping,  little  Henry,  with  your  ej'elids  scarcely  closing. 

Two  sweet  faces  near  together,  with  their  rounded  arms  entwined ;  — 
And  the  rose-bud  lips  were  moving,  as  if  stirred  in  their  reposing 
By  the  movements  of  the  mind ! 

And  your  mother  smoothed  the  pillow,  and  her  sleeping  treasures  numbered. 
Whispering  fondly  —  "  He  is  dreaming"  — as  you  turned  upon  your  bed  — 
And  your  father  stooped  to  kiss  you,  happy  dreamer,  as  you  slumbered, 
With  his  hand  upon  your  head! 

Did  he  know  the  true  deep  meaning  of  his  blessing?    No !  he  never 

Heard  afar  the  summons  uttered —  "  Come  up  hither"  —  Never  knew 
How  the  awful  Angel  faces  kept  his  sleeping  boy  for  ever, 
And  for  ever  in  their  view. 


ON   THE  DEATHS  OF  THREE   CHILDREN.  247 

Awl'ul  Faces,  unimpassioned,  silent  Presences  were  by  us, 

Shroudins;  wings  —  majestic  beings  —  hidden  by  this  earthly  veil  — 
Such  as  we  have  called  on,  saying,  "  Praise  the  Lord,  O  Ananias, 
Azarias,  and  Misael !  " 

But  we  saw  not,  and  who  knoweth,  what  the  missioned  Spirits  taue;ht  him, 

To  that  one  small  bed  drawn  nearer,  when  we  left  him  to  their  will  ? 
While  he  slumbered,  who  can  answer  for  what  dreams  they  may  have  brought  him, 
When  at  midnight  all  was  still? 

Father!  Mother!  must  you  leave  him  on  his  bed,  but  not  to  slumber? 

Are  the  small  hands  meekly  folded  on  his  breast,  but  not  to  pray? 
When  you  count  your  children  over,  must  you  tell  a  different  number, 
Since  that  happier  yesterday  ? 

Father!  Mother!  weep  if  need  be,  since  this  is  a  "time"  for  weeping. 

Comfort  comes  not  for  the  calling,  grief  is  never  argued  down  — 
Coldly  sounds  the  admonition,  "  Why  lament?  in  better  keeping 
Rests  the  child  thau  in  your  own." 

"  Truth  indeed !  but,  oh !  compassion !     Have  you  sought  to  scan  my  sorrow?" 

(Mother,  you  shall  meekly  ponder,  lisl'ning  to  that  common  tale) 
"  Does  your  heart  repeat  its  echo,  or  by  fellow-feeUng  borrow 
Even  a  tone  that  might  avail  ? 

"  Might  avail  to  steal  it  from  me,  by  its  deep  heart-warm  affection? 

Might  perceive  by  strength  of  loving  how  the  fond  words  to  combine? 
Surely  uo !   I  will  be  silent,  in  your  soul  is  no  reflection 
Of  the  care  that  burdens  mine ! ' ' 

When  the  winter  twilight  gathers.  Father,  and  your  thoughts  shall  wander, 

Sitting  lonely  you  shall  blend  him  with  your  listless  reveries. 
Half  forgetful  what  division  holds  the  form  whereon  you  ponder 
From  its  place  upon  your  knees  — 

With  a  start  of  recollection,  with  a  half-reproachful  wonder. 

Of  itself  the  heart  shall  question,  "  Art  Thou  then  no  longer  here? 
Is  it  so,  my  little  Henr>'  ?     Are  we  set  so  far  asunder 
Who  were  wont  to  be  so  near?" 

While  the  fire-light  dimly  flickers,  and  the  lengthened  shades  are  meeting, 

To  itself  the  heart  shall  answer,  "  He  shall  come  to  me  no  more: 
I  shall  never  hear  his  footsteps  nor  the  child's  sweet  voice  entreating 
For  admission  at  my  door." 

Rut  upon  yo7tr  fair,  fair  forehead,  no  regrets  nor  griefs  are  dwelling, 

Neither  sorrow  nor  disquiet  do  the  peaceful  features  know ; 
Nor  that  look,  whose  wistful  beauty  seemed  their  sad  hearts  to  be  telling, 
'*  Daylight  breaketh,  let  me  go!  " 


248  ON   THE  DEATHS  OF  THREE   CHILDREN. 

Daylight  breaketh,  little  Henry ;  in  its  beams  your  soul  awaketh  — 

What  though  night  slioulcl  close  around  us,  dim  and  dreary  to  the  view  — 
Though  our  souls  should  walk  in  darkness,  far  away  that  morning  breaketh 
Into  endless  day  for  you! 


SAMUEL, 

AGED   NINE   YEARS. 

They  have  left  you,  little  Henry,  but  they  have  not  left  you  lonely  — 

Brothers'  hearts  so  knit  toj;etlier  could  not,  might  not  separate  dwell, 
Fain  to  seek  you  in  the  mansions  far  away  —  One  lingered  only 
To  bid  those  behind  farewell ! 

Gentle  Boy!  — His  childlike  nature  in  most  guileless  form  was  moulded, 

And  it  may  be  that  his  spirit  woke  in  glory  unaware. 
Since  so  calmly  he  resigned  it,  with  his  hands  still  meeldy  folded, 
Having  said  his  evening  prayer. 

Or — if  conscious  of  that  summons —  "  Speak,  O  Lord,  Thy  servant  heareth' 

As  one  said,  whose  name  they  gave  him,  might  his  willing  answer  be, 
"  Here  am  I "  — like  him  replying —  "  At  Thy  gates  my  soul  appeareth, 
For  behold  Thoucalledst  me!  " 

A  deep  silence  —  utter  silence,  on  his  earthly  home  descendeth  :  — 

Reading,  playing,  sleeping,  waking  —  he  is  gone,  and  few  remain! 
"O  the  loss!  "  —  they  utter,  weeping —  every  voice  its  echo  lendeth  — 
"  O  the  loss!  "  —  But,  O  the  gain ! 

On  that  tranquil  shore  his  spirit  was  vouchsafed  an  early  landing, 

Lest  the  toils  of  crime  should  stain  it,  or  the  thrall  of  guilt  control  — 
Lest  that  "  wickedness  should  alter  the  yet  simple  understanding, 
Or  deceit  beguile  his  soul !  " 

"  Lay  not  up  on  earth  thy  treasure  "  —  they  have  read  that  sentence  duly. 

Moth  and  rust  shall  fret  thy  riches  —  earthly  good  hath  swift  decay  — 
"  Even  so,"  each  heart  replieth  —  "  As  for  me,  my  riches  truly 
Make  them  wings  and  flee  away!  " 

"  O  my  riches !  —  O  my  children !  —  dearest  part  of  life  and  being. 

Treasures  looked  to  for  the  solace  of  this  life's  declining  years, — 
Were  our  voices  cold  to  hearing  —  or  our  faces  cold  to  seeing. 
That  ye  left  us  to  our  tears?" 

"  We  inherit  conscious  silence,  ceasing  of  some  merry  laughter. 

And  the  hush  of  two  sweet  voices  —  (healing  sounds  for  spirits  bruised!) 
Of  the  tread  of  joyous  footsteps  in  the  pathway  following  after, 
Of  two  names  no  longer  used ! " 


ON  THE   DEATHS  OF   THREE   CHILDREN.  24 

Question  for  them,  little  Sister,  in  your  sweet  and  childish  fashion  — 

Searcli  and  seek  them,  Baby  Brother,  with  your  calm  and  asking  eyes  — 
Dimpled  lips  that  fail  to  utter  fond  appeal  or  sad  compassion, 
Mild  regret  or  dim  surprise! 

There  are  two  tall  trees  above  you,  by  the  high  east  window  growing, 

Underneath  them,  slumber  sweetly,  lapt  in  silence  deep,  serene  ;  t 

Save,  when  pealing  in  the  distance,  organ  notes  towards  you  flowing 
Echo  —  with  a  pause  between! 

And  that  pause?  —  a  voice  shall  fill  it  —  tones  that  blessed  you  daily,  nightly, 

Well  beloved,  but  not  sufficing,  Sleepers,  to  awnke  you  now. 
Though  so  near  he  stand,  that  shadows  from  your  trees  may  tremble  lightly 
On  his  book  and  on  his  brow  1 

Sleep  then  ever!   Neither  singing  of  sweet  birds  shall  break  your  slumber, 

Neither  fall  of  dew,  nor  sunshine,  dance  of  leaves,  nor  drift  of  snow. 
Charm  those  dropt  lids  more  to  open,  nor  the  tranquil  bosoms  cumber 
With  one  care  for  things  below ! 

It  is  something,  the  assurance,  that  yim  ne'er  shall  feel  like  sorrow, 

Weep  no  past  and  dread  no  future — know  not  sighing,  feel  not  pain  — 
Nor  a  day  that  looketh  forward  to  a  mournfuUer  tc-morrow  — 
"  Clouds  returning  after  rain!  " 

No,  far  off,  the  daylight  breaketh,  in  its  beams  each  soul  awaketh  : 

"  What  though  clouds,"  they  sigh,  "  be  gathered  dark  and  stormy  to  the  view, 
Though  the  light  our  eyes  forsaketli,  fresh  and  sweet  behold  it  breaketh 
Into  endless  day  for  you !  " 


KATIE,  AGED  FIVE  YEARS. 
(asleep  in  the  daytime.) 

All  rough  winds  are  hushed  and  silent,  golden  light  the  meadow  steepeth, 

And  the  last  October  roses  daily  wax  more  pale  and  fair; 
They  have  laid  a  gathered  blossom  on  the  breast  of  one  who  sleepeth 
With  a  sunbeam  on  her  hair. 

Calm,  and  draped  in  snowy  raiment  she  lies  still,  as  one  that  dreameth. 

And  a  grave  sweet  smile  hath  parted  dimpled  lips  that  may  not  speak; 
Slanting  down  that  narrow  sunbeam  like  a  ray  of  glory  gleameth 
On  the  sainted  brow  and  cheek. 

There  is  silence!     They  who  watch  her,  speak  no  word  of  grief  or  wailing, 

In  a  strange  unwonted  calmness  they  gaze  on  and  cannot  cease. 
Though  the  pulse  of  life  beat  faintly,  thought  shrink  back,  and  hope  be  failing. 
They,  like  Aaron,  '"  hold  their  peace." 


2SO  ON   THE  DEATHS  OF   THREE   CHILDREN. 

While  they  gaze  on  her,  the  deep  bell  with  its  long  slow  jpauses  soundeth  ; 
Long  they  hearken  —  father  —  mother — love  has  nothing  more  to  say: 
Beating  time  to  feet  of  Angels  leading  her  wliere  love  aboimdeth 
Tolls  the  heavy  bell  this  day. 

Still  in  silence  to  its  tolling  they  count  over  all  her  meetness 

To  lie  near  their  hearts  and  soothe  them  in  ail  sorrous  and  all  fears; 
Her  short  life  lies  spread  before  them,  but  they  cannot  tell  her  sweetness, 
Easily  as  tell  her  years. 

Only  daughter  —  Ah  !  how  fondly  Thought  around  that  lost  name  lingers, 

Oft  when  lone  your  mother  sitteth,  she  shall  weep  and  droop  her  head. 
She  shall  mourn  her  baby-sempstress,  with  those  imitative  fingers, 
Drawing  out  her  aimless  thread. 

In  your  father's  Future  cometh  many  a  sad  uncheered  to-morrow. 

But  in  sleep  shall  three  fair  faces  heavenly-calm  towards  him  lean  — 
Like  a  threefold  cord  shall  draw  hnn  through  the  weariness  of  sorrow. 
Nearer  to  the  things  unseen. 

With  the  closing  of  your  eyelids  close  the  dreams  of  expectation, 

And  so  ends  the  fairest  chapter  in  the  records  of  their  way: 
Therefore  —  O  thou  God  most  holy —  God  of  rest  and  consolation. 
Be  Thou  near  to  them  this  day! 

Be  Thou  near,  when  they  shall  nightly,  by  the  bed  of  infant  brothers. 

Hear  their  soft  and  gentle  breathing,  and  shall  bless  them  on  their  knees; 
And  shall  think  how  coldly  falleth  the  white  moonlight  on  the  others, 
In  their  bed  beneath  the  trees. 

Be  Thou  near,  when  they,  they  only,  bear  those  faces  in  remembrance. 

And  the  number  of  their  children  strangers  ask  them  with  a  smile  ; 
And  when  other  childlike  faces  touch  them  by  the  strong  resemblance 
To  those  turned  to  them  erewhile. 

Be  Thou  near,  each  chastened  Spirit  for  its  course  and  conflict  nerving, 

Let  Thy  voice  say,  "  Father  —  mother  —  !o  !  thy  treasures  live  above! 
Now  be  strong,  be  strong,  no  longer  cumbered  over  much  with  serving 
At  the  shrine  of  human  love." 

Let  them  sleep  I     In  course  of  ages  e'en  the  Holy  House  shall  crumble, 

And  the  broad  and  stately  steeple  one  day  bend  to  its  decline. 
And  high  arches,  ancient  arches  bowed  and  decked  in  clothing  humble. 
Creeping  moss  shall  round  them  twine. 

Ancient  arches,  old  and  hoary,  sunny  beams  shall  glimmer  through  them, 

And  invest  them  with  a  beauty  we  would  fain  they  should  not  share, 
And  the  moonlight  slanting  down  them,  the  white  moonlight  shall  imbue  them 
With  a  sadness  dim  and  fair. 


THE    TWO  MARGARETS. 

Then  the  soft  green  moss  shall  wrap  you,  and  the  world  shall  all  forget  you, 

Life,  and  stir,  and  toil,  and  tumult  unawares  shall  pass  you  by ; 
Generations  come  and  vanish  :  but  it  shall  not  grieve  nor  fret  you, 
That  they  sin,  or  that  they  sigh. 

And  the  world,  grown  old  in  sinning,  shall  deny  her  first  beginning. 

And  think  scorn  of  words  which  whisper  how  that  all  must  pass  away ; 
Time's  arrest  and  intermission  shall  accoiuit  a  vain  tradition, 
And  a  dream,  the  reckoning  day  ! 

Till  His  blast,  a  blast  of  terror,  shall  awake  in  shame  and  sadness 

Faithless  millions  to  a  vision  of  the  failing  earth  and  skies. 
And  more  sweet  than  song  of  Angels,  in  their  shout  of  joy  and  gladness. 
Call  the  dead  in  Christ  to  rise ! 

Then,  by  One  Man's  intercession,  standing  clear  from  their  transgression, 

Father  —  mother  —  you  shall  meet  them  fairer  than  they  were  before, 
And  have  joy  with  the  Redeemed,  joy  ear  hath  not  heard  —  heart  dreamed, 
Ay  for  ever  —  evennore ! 


THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 


MARGARET    BY    THE    MERE    SIDE. 

Lying  imbedded  in  the  green  cham- 
paign 
That  gives  no  shadow  to  thy  silvery 
face. 

Open  to  all  the  heavens,  and  all  their 
train. 
The  marshalled  clouds  that  cross  with 
stately  pace, 

No  steadfast  hills  on  thee  reflected  rest. 

Nor  waver  with  the  dimpling  of  thy 
breast. 

O,  silent  Mere!    about  whose  marges 
spring 
Thick  bulrushes  to  hide  the   reed- 
bird's  nest; 

Where  the  shy  ousel  dips  her  glossy 
wing,  frest : 

And  balanced  in  the  water  takes  her 

While  under  bending  leaves,  all  gem- 
arrayed, 

Blue   dragon-flies   sit    panting    in    the 
shade : 


Warm,  stilly  place,  the  sundew  loves 

thee  well. 
And  the  green  sward  comes  creeping 

to  thy  brink,  . 
And  golden  saxifrage  and  pimpernel 
Lean  down  to  thee  their  perfumed 

heads  to  drink ; 
And  heavy  with  the  weight  of  bees  doth 

bend 
White  clover,  and  beneath   thy  wave 

descend : 

While  the  sweet  scent  of  bean-fields, 
floated  wide 
On  a  long  eddy  of  the  lightsome  air 
Over  the  level  mead  to  thy  lone  side. 
Doth  lose  itself  among  thy  zephyrs 
rare, 
With  wafts  from  hawthorn  bowers  and 

new-cut  hay. 
And  blooming  orchards  lying  far  away. 

Thou  hast  thy  Sabbaths,  when  a  deeper 
calm 
Descends  upon  thee,  quiet  Mere,  and 
then 
There   is  a  sound  of  bells,    a  far-off 
psalm 
From  gray  church  towers,  that  swims 
across  the  fuu  ; 


THE    TWO  MARGARETS. 


And  the  light  sigh  where  grass  and 

waters  meet, 
Is  thy  meek  welcome  to  the  visit  sweet. 

Thou  hast    thy    lovers.     Though  the 

angler's  rod 
Dimple  thy  surface  seldom ;  though 

the  oar 
Fill  not  with  silvery  globes  thy  fringing 

sod, 
Nor  send  long  ripples  to  thy  lonely 

shore  ; 
Though  few,  as  in  a  glass,  have  cared 

to  trace 
The  smile  of  nature  moving  on  thy  face  ; 

Thou  hast  thy  lovers  truly.     'Mid  the 

cold 
Of  northern  tarns  the  wild-fowl  dream 

of  thee, 
And,  keeping  thee  in  mind,  their  wings 

unfold, 
And  shape  their  course,  high  soaring, 

till  they  see 
Down  in  the  world,  like  molten  silver, 

rest 
Their  goal,  and  screaming  plunge  them 

in  thy  breast. 

Fair    Margaret,   -who   sittest    all    day 
long 
On  the  gray  stone  beneath  the  syca- 
more. 
The  bowering  tree  with  branches  lithe 
and  strong, 
The  only  one  to  grace  the  level  shore. 
Why  dost  thou  wait?  for  whom  with 

patient  cheer 
Gaze  yet  so  wistfully  adown  the  Mere? 

Thou  canst  not  tell,  thou  dost  not  know, 
alas ! 
Long  watchings  leave  behind  them 
Tittle  trace  ; 

And  yet  how  sweetly  must  the  morn- 
ings pass. 
That  bring  that  dreamy  Calmness  to 
thy  face  ! 

How  quickly  must  the  evenings  come 
that  find 

Thee  still  regret  to  leave  the  Mere  be- 
hind! 


Thy  cheek  is  resting  on  thy  hand  ;  thine 

eyes 

Are  like  tw  in  violets  but  half  unclosed, 

And  quiet  as  the  deeps  in  yonder  skies. 

Never  more  peacefully  in  love  reposed 

A   mother's   gaze   upon   her  offspring 

dear, 
Than  thine  upon  the  long  far-stretch- 
ing Mere. 

Sweet  innocent!  Thy  yellow  hair  floats 
low 
In  rippling  undulations  on  thy  breast, 

Then  stealing  down   the  parted  love- 
locks flow, 
Bathed  in  a  sunbeam  on  thy  knees  to 
rest. 

And  touch  those  idle  hands  that  folded 
lie, 

Having  from  sport  and  toil  a  like  im- 
munity. 

Through  thy  life's  dream  with  what  a 

touching  grace 
Childhood  attends  thee,  nearly  woman 

grown ; 
Her  dimples  linger  yet  upon  thy  face. 

Like  dews  upon  a  lily  this  day  blown  ; 
Thy  sighs  are  bom  of  peace,  unruffled, 

deep  ; 
So  the  babe  sighs  on  mother's  breast 

asleep. 

It  sighs,  and  wakes, — but  thou!  thy 
dream  is  all. 
And  thou  wert  born  for  it,  and  it  for 
thee  ; 

Mom  doth  not  take  thy  heart,  nor  even- 
fall 
Charm  out  its  sorrowful  fidelity', 

Nor  noon  beguile  thee  from  the  pas- 
toral shore. 

And  thy  long  watch  beneath  the  syca- 
more. 

No,  down  the  Mere,  as  far  as  eye  can 
see. 
Where  its  long  reaches  fade  into  the 
sky, 
Thy  constant    gaze,    fair    child,    rests 
lovingly  ; 
But  neither  thou  nor  any  can  descry 


MARGARET  BV  THE  MERE  SIDE. 


253 


Aught  but  the  grassy  banks,  the  rustling 

sedge, 
And   flocks   of  wild-fowl   splashing  at 

their  edge. 

And    yet    'tis    not    with    expectation 
hushed 
That  thy  mute  rosy  mouth  doth  pout- 
ing close : 

No  fluttering  hope  to  thy  young  heart 
e'er  rushed, 
Nor  disappointment  troubled  its  re- 
pose ; 

All  satisfied  with  gazing  evermore 

Along  the  sunny  Mere  and  reedy  shore. 

The  brooding  wren  flies  pertly  near  thy 

seat, 
Thou   wilt    not    move   to  mark  her 

glancing  wing ; 
The  timid  sheep  browse  close  before  thy 

feet, 
And  heedless  at  thy  side  do  thrushes 

sing. 
So  long  amongst  them  thou  hast  spent 

thy  days. 
They  know  that   harmless  hand  thou 

wilt  not  raise. 

Thou  wilt  not  lift  it  up  —  not  e'en  to 
take 
The  foxglove  bells  that  flourish  in  the 
shade, 

And  put  them  in   thy  bosom  ;  not  to 
make 
A  posy  of  wild  hyacinth  inlaid 

Like  bright  mosaic  in  the  mossy  grass. 

With  freckled  orchis  and  pale  sassa- 
fras. 

Gaze  on;  —  take  in  the  voices  of  the 

Mere, 
The  break  of  shallow  water  at  thy 

feet. 
Its  splash  among  long  reeds  and  grasses 

sere. 
And  its  weird  sobbing, — hollow  music 

meet 
For  ears  like  thine ;  listen  and  take  thy 

fill. 
And  dream  on  it  by  night,  when  all  is 

still. 


Full  sixteen  years  have  slowly  passed 

away. 
Young    Margaret,    since    thy   fond 

mother  here 
Came   down,  a  six  months'  wife,  one 

April  day. 
To  see  her  husband's  boat  go  down 

the  Mere, 
And  track  its  course,  till,  lost  in  distance 

blue, 
In  mellow  light  it  faded  from  her  view. 

It  faded,  and  she  never  saw  it  more  ;  — 
Nor  any  human  eye ;  —  oh,  grief !  oh, 

woe! 
It  faded,  —  and    returned  not   to  the 

shore ; 
But  far  above  it  still  the  waters  flow — 
And  none  beheld  it  sink,  and  none  could 

tell 
Where  coldly  slept  the  form  she  loved 

so  well ! 

But  that  sad  day,   unknowing  of  her 
fate. 
She  homeward  turn'd  her  still  reluc- 
tant feet ; 

And  at  her  wheel  she  spun,  till  dark  and 
late. 
The   evening  fell; — the  time  when 
they  should  meet ;  — 

Till  the  stars  paled  that  at  deep  mid- 
night burned  — 

And  morning  dawned,  and  he  was  not 
returned. 

And  the  bright  sun  came  up,  —  she 

thought  too   soon,  — 
And  shed  his  ruddy  light  along  the 

Mere ; 
And  day  wore  on  too  quickly,  and  at 

noon 
She  came  and  wept  beside  the  waters 

clear. 
"How  could   he  be  so  late?" — and 

then  hope  fled ; 
And    disappointment    darkened   into 

dread. 

He  NEVER  came,  and  she  with  weepings 
sore 
Peered  in  the  water-flags  unceasingly; 


254 


THE   TWO  MARGARETS. 


Through    all    the  undulations  of   the 

shore, 
Looking    for  that   which   most   she 

feared  to  see. 
And  tlien  slie  took  home  sorrow  to  her 

lieart, 
And  brooded  over  its  cold,  cruel  smart. 

And  after,  desolate  she  sat  alone 

And  mourned,   refusing  to  be  com- 
forted, 

On  the  gray  stone,  the  moss-embroid- 
ered stone, 
With  the  great  sycamore  above  her 
head ; 

Till  after  many  days  a  broken  oar 

Hard  by  her  seat  was  drifted  to  the 
shore. 

It  came,  —  a  token  of  his  fate,  —  the 
whole, 
The  sum  of  her  misfortune  to  reveal  ; 
As  if  sent  up  in  pity  to  her  soul, 

The   tidings    of    her  widowhood   to 
seal ; 
And  put  away  the  pining  hope  forlorn, 
That  made  her  grief  more  bitter  to  be 
borne. 

And  she  was  patient ;  through  the  weary 
day 
She  toiled ;  though  none  was  there 
her  work  to  bless. 

And  did  not  wear  the   sullen   months 
away. 
Nor  calf  on  death  to  end  her  wretch- 
edness, 

But  lest  the  grief  should  overflow  her 
breast. 

She  toiled  as  heretofore,  and  would  not 
rest. 

But,    her  work   done,   what   time   the 

evening  star 
Rose  over  the  cool  water,  then  she 

came 
To  the  gray  stone,  and  saw  its  light  from 

far 
Drop   down   the   misty  Mere   white 

lengths  of  flame. 
And  wondered  whether  there  might  be 

the  place 
Where  the  soft  ripple  wandered   o'er 

HIS  face. 


Unfortunate  !     In  solitude  forlorn 
She  dwelt,  and  thought  upon  her  hus- 
band's grave. 

Till  when  the  days  grew  short  a  child 
was  born 
To  the  dead  father  underneath  the 
wave ; 

And  it  brought  back  a  remnant  of  de- 
light, 

A  little  sunshine  to  its  mother's  sight  ; 

A   little  wonder    to    her  heart  grown 

numb, 
And    a    sweet  yearning  pitiful   and 

keen  : 
She  took  it  as  from  that  poor  father 

come. 
Her  and  the  misery  to  stand  between  ; 
Her   little  maiden  babe,    who  day  by 

day 
Sucked  at  her  breast  and  charmed  her 

woes  away. 

But  years  flew  on ;  the  child  was  still 
the  same. 
Nor  human  language  she  had  learned 
to  speak  ; 

Her  lips  were  mute,  and  seasons  went 
and  came. 
And  brought  fresh  beauty  to  her  ten- 
der cheek  ; 

And  all  the  day  upon  the  sunny  shore 

She  sat  and  mused  beneath  the  syca- 
more. 

Strange  sympathy!    she  watched  and 

wearied  not. 
Haply  unconscious  what  it  was  she 

sought ; 
Her  mother's  tale  she  easily  forgot. 
And  if  she  listened  no  warm  tears  it 

brought ; 
Though  surely  in  the  yearnings  of  her 

heart 
The  unknown  voyager  must  have  had 

his  part. 

Unknown  to  her ;  like  all  she  saw  un- 
known, 
All  sights  were  fresh  as  when  they 
first  began. 

All   sounds   were  new ;    each  murmur 
and  each  tone 


MARGARET  BY   THE   ATE  RE   SIDE. 


255 


And  cause  and  consequence  she  could 

not  scan, 
Forgot  that  night  brought  darkness  in 

its  train, 
Nor  reasoned  that  the  day  would  come 

again. 

There  is  a  happiness  in  past  regret ; 
And  echoes  of   the  harshest   sound 
are  sweet. 

The    mother's    soul   was    struck   with 
grief,  and  yet. 
Repeated  in  her  child,  'twas  not  un- 
meet 

Tliat  echo-like  the  grief  a  tone  should 
take 

Painless,  but  ever  pensive  for  her  sake  ; 

For  her  dear  .sake,  whose  patient  soul 
was  linked 
By  ties  so  many  to  the  babe  unborn  ; 

Whose  hope,  by  slow  degrees  become 
extinct. 
For  evermore  had  left  her  child  for- 
lorn, 

Yet  left  no  consciousness  of  want  or 
woe, 

Nor  wonder  vague   that   these   things 
should  be  so. 

Truly  her  joys  were  limited  and  few, 
But  they  sufficed  a  life  to  satisfy, 

That  neither  fret  nor  dim  foreboding 
knew, 
But  breathed  the  air  in  a  great  har- 
mony 

With  its  own  place  and  part,  and  was  at 
one 

With  all  it  knew  of  earth  and  moon  and 
sun. 

For  all  of  them  were  worked  into  the 
dream, 
The  husky  sighs  of  wheat-fields  in  it 
wrought ; 
,  All  the  land-miles  belonged  to  it ;  the 
stream 
That  fed  the  Mere  ran  through  it  like 
a  thou]E;ht. 
It  was  a  passion  of  peace,  and  loved  to 

wait 
'Neath   boughs   with   fair  green   light 
illuminate  ; 


To  wait  with  her  alone  ;  alway"  a'one  : 
For  any  that  drew  near  she  heeded 
not. 

Wanting  them  little  as  the  lily  grown 
Apart  from  others  in  a  shady  plot, 

Wants  fellow-lilies  of  like  fair  degree. 

In  her  still  glen  to  bear  her  company. 

Always   alone  :    and  yet,   there  was   a 

child 
Who  loved  this  child,  and,  from  his 

turret  towers, 
Across  the  lea  would  roam  to  where, 

inisled 
And  fenced  in  rapturous  silence,  went 

her  hours, 
And,  with  slow  footsteps  drawn  anear 

the  place 
Where  mule  she  sat,  would  ponder  on 

her  face, 

And  wonder  at  her  with  a  childish  awe, 
And   come   again   to   look,    and    yet 

again. 
Till   the   sweet   rippling   of   the   Mere 

would  draw 
His  longing  to  itself ;  while  in  her 

train 
The  water-hen,  come  forth,  would  bring 

her  brood 
From  slumbering  in  the  rushy  solitude  ; 

Or  to  their  young  would  curlews  call 

and  clang 
Their  homeless  young  that  down  the 

furrows  creep ; 
Or  the  wind-hover  in  the  blue  would 

hang. 
Still  as  a  rock  set  in  the  watery  deep. 
Then  from  her  presence  he  would  break 

away. 
Unmarked,  ungreeted  yet,  from  day  to 

day. 

But  older  grown,  the  Mere  he  haunted 
yet. 
And  a  strange  joy  from  its  sweet  wild- 
nes-  caught  ; 
Whilst  careless  sat  alone  maid  Marga- 
ret, 
And  "shut  the  gates"  of  silence  on 
her  thought. 


2s6 


THE   TWO  MARGARETS. 


All  through  spring  mornings  gemmed 

with  melted  rime, 
All  through  hay-harvest  and  through 

gleaning  time. 

O    pleasure    for    itself    that    boyhood 
makes, 
O   happiness   to    roam    the    sighing 
shorj, 

Plough  up  with  elfin  craft  the  water- 
flakes. 
And  track  the  nested  rail  with  cau- 
tious oar  ; 

Then  floating  lie  and  look  with  wonder 
new 

Straight  up  in  the  great  dome  of  light 
and  blue. 


O  pleasure !  yet  they  took  him  from  the 
wo'id. 
The  reedy  Mere,  and  all  his  pastime 
there. 

The    place  where   he  was  bom,   and 
would  grow  old 
If  God  his  life  so  many  years  should 
spare ; 

From  the  loved  haunts  of  childhood  and 
the  plain 

And  pasture-lands  of  his  own  broad  do- 
main. 

And  he  came  down  when  wheat  was  in 
the  sheaf, 
And  with  her  fruit  the  app!e-branch 
bent  low, 

While  yet  in  August  glory  hung  the 
leaf. 
And  flowerless  aftermath  began   to 
grow  ; 

He  came  from  his  gray  turrets  to  the 
shore, 

And  sought  the  maid  beneath  the  syca- 
more. 

He  sought  her,  not  because  her  tender 
eyes 
Would  brighten  at  his  coming,  for  he 
knew 
Full  seldom  any  thought  of  him  would 
rise 
In  her  fair  breast  when  he  had  passed 
from  view ; 


But  for  his  own  love's  sake,  that  unbe- 

guiled 
Drew  him  in  spirit  to  the  silent  child. 


For  boyhood  in  its  better  hour  is  prone 
To  reverence  what  it  hath  not  under- 
stood ; 

And  he  had  thought  some   heavenly 
meaning  shone 
From  her  clear  eyes,  that  made  their 
watchings  good ; 

While  a  great   peacefulness  of  shade 
was  shed 

Like  oil  of  consecration  on  her  head. 


A    fishing    wallet    from    his    shoulder 

slung. 
With  bounding  foot  he  reached  the 

mossy  place, 
A  little  moment  gently  o'er  her  hung. 
Put  back  her  hair  and  looked  upon 

her  face. 
Then  fain  from  that  deep  dream  to  wake 

her  yet. 
He   "Margaret!"    low    murmured, 

"  Margaret ! 

"  Look  at  me  once  before  I  leave  the 

land. 
For  I  am  going,  —  going,  Margaret." 
And  then  she  sighed,  and,  lifting  up 

her  hand. 
Laid  it  along  his  young  fresh  cheek, 

and  set 
Upon  his  face  those  blue  twin-deeps, 

her  eyes, 
And  moved  it  back  from  her  in  troubled 

wise. 

Because  he  came  between  her  and  her 
fate, 
The  Mere.     She  sighed  again  as  one 
oppressed ; 

The   waters,   shining  clear,  with   deli- 
cate 
Reflections  wavered  on  her  blameless 
breast ; 

And  through  the  branches  dropt,  like 
flickerings  fair, 

And  played  upon  her  hands  and  on  her 
hair. 


MfA  RG  A  RET  IN   THE  XE  BE  C. 


257 


And  he,   withdrawn  a  little  space   to 

see, 
Murmured  in  tender  ruth   that  was 

not  pain, 
"  Farewell,  1  go  ;  but  sometimes  think 

of  me. 
Maid  Margaret ;"  and  there  came  by 

again 
A  whispering  in  the  reed-beds  and  the 

sway 
Of  waters :  then  he  turned  and  went 

his  way. 

And  wilt  thou  think  on  him  now  he  is 

gone? 
No  i    thou  wilt    gaze :    though    thy 

yoiuig  eyes  grow  dim. 
And  thy  soft  cheek  become  all  pale  and 

wan, 
Still  thou  wilt  gaze,   and  spend  no 

thought  on  him  ; 
There  is  no  sweetness  in  his  laugh  for 

thee  — 
No  beauty  in  his  fresh  heart's  gayety. 

But    wherefore    linger    in    deserted 

haunts? 
Why  of  the  past,  as  if  yet  present, 

sing? 
The  yellow  iris  on  the  margin  flaunts, 
Witli  hyacinth  the  banks  are  blue  in 

sprmg. 
And   under  dappled    clouds    the  lark 

afloat 
Pours  all  the  April-tide  from  her  sweet 

throat. 

But  Margaret  —  ah!  thou  art  there  no 
more. 
And  thick  dank  moss  creeps  over  thy 
gray  stone  ; 

Thy  path  is  lost  that  skirted  the  low 
shore, 
With  willow-grass  and  speedwell  over- 
grown ; 

Thine  eye  has  closed  for  ever,  and  thine 
ear 

Drinks  in  no   more  the  music  of  the 
Mere. 

The  boy  shall  come  —  shall  come  again 
in  spring, 
Well   pleased  that  pastoral  solitude 
to  share. 


And  some  kind  offering  in  his  hand  will 

bring 
To  cast  mto  thy  lap,   O  maid  most 

fair  — 
Some  clasping  gem  about  thy  neck  to 

rest. 
Or  heave  and  gllrmner  on  thy  guileless 

breast. 

And  he  shall  wonder  why  thou  art  not 
here 
The  solitude  with  "smiles  to  enter- 
tain," 

And  gaze   along    the    reaches  of    the 
Mere  ; 
But   he    shall    never    see    thy    face 
again  — 

Shall  never  see  upon  the  reedy  shore 

Maid  Margaret  beneath  her  sycamore. 


MARGARET  IN    THE   XEDEC. 

["  Concerning  this  man  (Robert  Del- 
acour),  little  further  is  known  than  that 
he  served  in  the  king's  army,  and  was 
wounded  in  the  battle  of  Marston  Moor, 
being  then  about  twenty-seven  years  of 
age.  After  the  battle  of  Nazeby,  find- 
ing himself  a  marked  man,  he  quitted 
the  country',  taking  with  him  tlie  child 
whom  he  had  adopted;  and  he  made 
many  voyages  between  the  different 
ports  of  the  Mediterranean  and  Le- 
vant."] 

Resting  within  his  tent  at  turn  of  day, 

A  wailing  voice  his  scanty  sleep  beset : 

He  started  up  —  it  did  not  flee  away  — 

'Twas  no  part  of  his  dream,  but  still 

did  fret 

And  pine  into  his  heart,  "  Ah  me  !  ah 

me!  " 
Broken  with  heaving  sobs  right  mourn- 
fully. 

Then  he  arose,  and,  troubled  at  this 
thing, 
All  wearily  toward  the  voice  he  went 
Over  the  down-trod  bracken  and  the 


2S8 


THE    TWO  MARGARETS. 


Until  it  brought  him  to  a  soldier's 

tent, 
Where,  with  the  tears  upon  her  face, 

he  found 
A  little  maiden  weeping  on  the  ground ; 

And  backward  in   the  tent   an    aged 

crone 
Upbraided  her  full  harshly  more  and 

more. 
But  sunk  her  chiding  to  an  undertone 
When  she  beheld  him  standing  at 

the  door. 
And  calmed   her  voice,  and  .dropped 

her  lifted  hand. 
And  answered  him  with  accent  soft  and 

bland. 

No,  the  young  chUd  was  none  of  hers, 
she  said. 
But  she  had  found  her  where  the  ash 
lay  white 

About  a  smouldering  tent ;  her  infant 
head 
All  shelterless,  she  through  the  dewy 
night 

Had  slumbered    on    the    field,  —  un- 
gentle fate 

For  a  lone  child  so  soft  and  delicate. 

"And   I,"   quoth  she,    '"have  tended 

her  with  care, 
And  thought  to  be  rewarded  of  her 

kin. 
For  by  her  rich  attire  and  features  fair 
I    know    her  birth    is    gentle:    yet 

within 
The  tent  unclaimed  she  doth  but  pine 

and  weep, 
A  burden  I  would  fain  no  longer  keep." 

Still  while  she  spoke  the  little  creature 

wept. 
Till  painful  pity  touched  him  for  the 

flow 
Of  all  those   tears,   and   to  his  heart 

there  crept 
A  yearning  as  of  fatherhood,  and  lo  ! 
Reaching  hisarmstoher,  "My sweet," 

quoth  he, 
"Dear  little  madam,  wilt  thou  come 

with  me?" 


Then  she  left  off  her  crying,  and  a  look 
Of  wistful  wonder  stole  into  her  eyes. 
The  sullen  frown  her  dimpled  face  for- 
sook. 
She  let  him  take  her,  and  forgot  her 
sighs. 
Contented  in  his  alien  arms  to  rest. 
And  lay  her  baby  head  upon  his  breast. 

Ah,   sure  a  stranger  trust  was  never 

sought 
By  any  soldier  on  a  battle-plain. 
He  brought  her  to  his  tent,  and  soothed 

his  voice, 
Rough  with   command ;  and  asked, 

but  all  in  vain. 
Her  stor^',  while  her  prattling  tongue 

rang  sweet. 
She  playing,  as  one  at  home,  about  his 

feet. 

Of  race,  of  countrj',  or  of  parentage. 
Her  lisping   accents  nothing    could 
unfold  :  — 

No  questioning  could  win  to  read  the 
page 
Of  her  "short  life  ;  —  she  left  her  tale 
untold. 

And  home  and  kin  thus  early  to  for- 
get. 

She   only    knew,  —  her    name    was  — 
Margaret. 

Then   in   the   dusk   upon    his  arm   it 

chanced 
That   night   that   suddenly  she  fell 

asleep ; 
And  he  looked  down  on  her  like  one 

entranced, 
And  listened  to  her  breathmg   still 

and  deep. 
As    if   a    little    child,    when    daylight 

closed. 
With  half-shut  lids  had  ne'er   before 

reposed. 

Softly  he  laid  her  down  from  off  his 
arm. 
With  earnest  care  and  new-bom  ten- 
derness : 
Her  infancy,  a  wonder-working  charm. 
Laid  hold  upon  his  love ;  he  stayed 
to  bless 


MARGARET  IN  THE   XEBEC. 


259 


The  small  sweet  head,   then  went  he 

forth  that  night 
And  sought  a  nurse  to  tend  this  new 

delight. 

And  day  by  day  his  heart  she  wrought 

upon, 
And  won    her  way  into   its   inmost 

fold  — 
A  heart  which,   but  for  lack  of  that 

whereon 
To  fix  itself,  would  never  have  been 

cold; 
And,  opening  wide,  now  let  her  come  to 

dwell 
Within  its  strong  unguarded  citadel. 

She,  like  a  dream,  unlocked  the  hidden 
springs 
Of  his  past  thoughts,  and  set  their 
current  free 

To    talk    with    him    of    half-forgotten 
things  — 
The  pureness  and  the  peace  of  in- 
fancy, 

"  Thou  also,  thou,"  to  sigh,  "  wert  un- 
defiled 

(O  God,  the  change  !)  once,  as  this  little 
child." 

The  baby-mistress  of  a  soldier's  heart, 
She  had  but  friendlessness  to  stand 

her  friend, 
And  her  own  orphanhood  to  plead  her 

part. 
When  he,  a  wayfarer,  did  pause,  and 

bend, 
And  bear  with  him  the  starry  blossom 

sweet 
Out  of  its  jeopardy  from  trampling  feet. 

A  gleam  of  light  upon  a  rainy  day, 
A  new-tied  knot  that  must  be  severed 
soon. 
At    sunrise    once    before    his  tent  at 
play, 
And  hurried  from  the  battle-field  at 
noon, 
While  face  to  face  in  hostile  ranks  they 

stood. 
Who  should  have  dwelt  in  peace  and 
brotherhood. 


But  ere  the  fight,  when  higher  rose  the 

sun. 
And  yet  were  distant  far  the  rebel 

bands. 
She  heard  at  intervals  a  booming  gun. 
And  she  was  pleased,  and  laughing 

clapped  her  hands ; 
Till  he  came  in  with  troubled  look  and 

tone. 
Who  chose  her  desolate  to  be  his  own. 

And  he  said,  "  Little  madam,  now  fare- 
well. 
For  there  will  be  a  battle  fought  ere 
night. 
God  be  thy  shield,  for  He  alone  can  tell 
Which  wav  may  fall  the  fortune  of 
the  fight. 
To  fitter  hands  the  care  of  thee  pertain. 
My  dear,  if  we  two  never  meet  again." 

Then  he  gave  money  shortly  to   her 

nurse, 
And  charged  her  straitly  to  depart  in 

haste, 
And  leave  the  plain,  whereon  the  deadly 

curse 
Of  war  should  light  with  ruin,  death, 

and  waste, 
And  all  the  ills  that  must  its  presence 

blight, 
E'en  if  proud  victory  should  bless  the 

right. 

"  But  if  the  rebel  cause  should  prosper, 

then 
It  were  not  good  among  the  hills  to 

wend ; 
But  journey  through  to  Boston  in  the 

fen. 
And  wait  for  peace,  if  peace  our  God 

shall  send  ; 
And  if  my  life  is  spared,  I  will  essay," 
Quoth  he,  "  to  join  you  there  as  best  I 

may." 

So  then  he  kissed  the  child,  and  went 
his  way ; 
But  many  troubles  rolled  above  his 
lie  ad  ; 
The  sun  arose  on  many  an  evil  day, 
And  cruel  deeds  were  done,  and  tears 
were  shed ; 


26o 


THE    TWO  MARGARETS. 


And  hope  w'as  lost,  and  loyal  hearts 

were  fain 
In  dust  to  hide,  —  ere  they  two  met 

again. 

So  passed  the  little  child  from  thought, 
from  view  — 
(The  snowdrop  blossoms,  and  then  is 
not  there, 

Forgotten  till  men  welcome  it  anew). 
He  found  her  in  his  heavy  days  of 
care. 

And  with  her  dimples  was  again  be- 
guiled, 

As  on  her  nurse's  knee  she  sat  and 
smiled. 

And  he  became  a  voyager  by  sea. 
And  took  the  child  to  share  his  wan- 
dering state ; 

Since  from  his  native  land  compelled  to 
flee, 
And  hopeless  to  avert  her  monarch's 
fate  ; 

For  all  was  lost  that  might  have  made 
him  pause, 

And,   past  a  soldier's   help,  the  royal 
cause. 

And  thus   rolled  on  long  days,   long 
months  and  years. 
And    Margaret    within    the    Xebec 
sailed ; 

The  lulling  wind  made   music  in  her 
ears, 
And  nothing  to  her  life's  complete- 
ness failed. 

Her  pastime  'twas  to  see  the  dolphins 
spring, 

And  wonderful  live  rainbows  glimmer- 
ing- 

The  gay  sea-plants  familiar  were  to  her. 

As  daisies  to  the  children  of  the  land  ; 

Red  wavy  dulse  the  sunburnt  mariner 

Raised  from  its  bed  to  glisten  in  her 

hand ; 

The  vessel  and  the  sea  were  her  life's 

stage  — 
Her  house,  her  garden,  and  her  herrait- 


Also  she  had  a  cabin  of  her  own, 
For  beauty    like     an    elfiu    palace 

bright, 
With  Venice  glass  adorned  and  crystal 

stone, 
That  trembled  with  a  many-colored 

light ; 
And  there  with  two  caged   ringdoves 

she  did  play. 
And  feed  them  carefully  from  day  to 

day. 


Her  bed  with  silken  curtains  was  en- 
closed, 
White  as  the  snowy  rose  of  Guelder- 
land ; 

On  Turkish  pillows  her  young  head 
reposed, 
And  love  had  gathered  with  a  careful 
hand 

Fair  playthings  to  the  little  maiden's 
side, 

From  distant  ports,  and  cities  parted 
wide. 


She  had  two  myrtle-plants  that  she  did 
tend. 
And  think  all  trees  were  like  to  them 
that  grew : 

For  things  on  land  she  did  confuse  and 
blend, 
And  chiefly  from  the  deck  the  land 
she  knew. 

And  in  her  heart  she  pitied  more  and 
more 

The  steadfast  dwellers  on  the  change- 
less shore. 


Green  fields  and  Inland  meadows  faded 

out 
Of  mind,  or  with  sea  images  were 

linked ; 
And  yet  she  had  her  childish  thoughts 

about 
The  country  she  had  left  —  though 

indistinct 
And  faint  as  mist  the   mountain-head 

that  shrouds, 
Or  dim  through  distance  as  Magellan's 

clouds. 


MARGARET  IN'  THE  XEBEC. 


And  when  to  frame  a  forest  scene  she 
tried, 
The  ever-present  sea  would  yet  in- 
trude, 

And  all  her  towns  were  by  the  water's 
side. 
It  murmured   in  all  moorland  soli- 
tude. 

Where  rocks  and  the  ribbed  sand  would 
intervene, 

And  waves  would  edge  her  fancied  vil- 
lage green ; 


Because  her  heart  was  hke  an  ocean 
shell. 
That  holds  (men  say)  a  message  from 
the  deep; 

And  yet  the  land  was  strong,  she  knew 
its  spell. 
And  harbor  lights  could  draw  her  in 
her  sleep ; 

And  minster  chimes  from  pierced  tow- 
ers that  swim, 

Were  the  land-angels  making   God  a 
hymn. 


So  she  grew  on,  the  idol  of  one  heart, 
And  the  delight  of  many  —  and  her 

face, 
Thus  dwelling  chiefly  from   her   sex 

apart, 
Was  touched  with  a  most  deep  and 

tender  grace  — 
A  look  that  never  aught  but   nature 

gave, 
Artless,  yet  thoughtful ;  innocent,  yet 

grave. 


Strange    her   adornings    were,    and 

strangely  blent  • 
A  golden  net  confined  her  nut-brown 

hair ; 
Quaint  were  the  robes  that  divers  lands 

had  lent. 
And  quaint  her  aged  nurse's  skill  and 

care ; 
Yet  did  they  well  on  the  sea-maiden 

meet, 
Circle  her  neck,  and  grace  her  dimpled 

feet. 


The  sailor  folk  were  glad  because  of 
her, 
And  deemed  good  fortune  followed 
in  her  wake  ; 

She  was  their  guardian  saint,  they  did 
aver  — 
Prosperous  winds  were  sent  them  for 
her  sake  ; 

And  strange  rough  vows,  strange  pray- 
ers, they  nightly  made, 

While,   storm   or  calm,   she  slept,   in 
nought  afraid. 


Clear  were  her  eyes,  that  daughter  of 

the  sea, 
Sweet,   when  uplifted  to  her    aged 

nurse, 
She  sat,  and  communed  what  the  world 

could  be ; 
And  rambling  stories  caused  her  to 

rehearse 
How    Yule   was    kept,   how    maidens 

tossed  the  hay. 
And  how  bells  rang  upon  a  wedding 

day. 

But  they  grew  brighter  when  the  even- 
ing-star 
First  trembled  over  the  still  glowing 
wave. 

That  bathed  in  ruddy  light,  mast,  sail, 
and  spar ; 
For  then,  reclined  in  rest  that  twi- 
light gave, 

With  him  who  served  for  father,  friend, 
and  guide, 

She  sat  upon  the  deck  at  eventide. 


Then  turned  towards  the  west,  that  on 
her  hair 
And  her  young  cheek  shed  down  its 
tender  glow. 

He  taught  her  many  things  with  ear- 
nest care 
That    he    thought   fitting   a   youn^ 
maid  should  know. 

Told  of  the  good  deeds  of  the  worthy 
dead. 

And  prayers  devout,  by  faithful  martyrs 
said. 


262 


THE    TIVO  MARGARETS. 


And  many  psalms  he  caused   her  to 

repeat 
And  sing  them,  at  his  knees  reclined 

the  while, 
And  spoke  with  her  of  all  things  good 

and  meet. 
And    told    the   story  of  her   native 

isle. 
Till  at  the  end  he  made  her  tears  to 

flow, 
Rehearsing  of  his  royal  master's  woe. 


And  of  the  stars  he  taught  her,   and 
their  names. 
And  how  the  chartless  mariner  they 
guide ; 

Of  quivering  light  that  in  the  zenith 
flames. 
Of  mon>ters  in  the  deep  sea  caves 
that  hide  ; 

Then  changed  the  theme  to  fairy  rec- 
ords wild, 

Enchanted  moor,  elf  dame,  or  change- 
ling child. 


To  her  the  Eastern  lands  their  strange- 
ness spread. 
The  dark-faced  Arab  in  his  long  blue 
gown. 

The  camel  thrusting  down  a  snake-like 
head 
To  browse  on  thorns  outside  a  walled 
white  town, 

Where  palmy  clusters  rank  by  rank  up- 
right 

Float  as  in  quivering  lakes  of  ribbed 
light. 


And  when  the  ship  sat  like  a  broad- 
winged  bird 
Becalmed,  lo,  lions  answered  in  the 
night 

Their  fellows,  all  the  hollow  dark  was 
stirred 
To  echo  on  that  tremulous  thunders 
flight. 

Dying  in  weird  faint  moans  ;  —  till,  look  I 
the  sun 

And  night,  and  all  the  things  of  night, 
were  done. 


And  they,  toward  the  waste  as  morning 

brake, 
Turned,  where,  inisled  in  his  green 

watered  land. 
The  Lybian  Zeus  lay  couched  of  old, 

and  spake. 
Hemmed  in  with  leagues  of  furrow- 

fackl  sand  — 
Then    saw    the    moon  (like  Joseph's 

golden  cup 
Come  back)  behind  some  ruined  roof 

swim  up. 


But  blooming  childhood  will  not  always 
last. 
And  storms  will  rise  e'en  on  the  tide- 
less  sea ; 

His  guardian  love  took  fright,  she  grew 
so  fast. 
And  he  began  to  think  how  sad 'twould 
be 

If   he   should   die,   and   pirate   hordes 
should  get 

By   swoid   or   shipwreck  his  fair  Mar- 
ga;  et. 

It  was  a  sudden  thought ;  but  he  gave 

way. 
For   it  assailed  him  with  unwonted 

force  ; 
And,    with    no    more   than   one   short 

week's  de'.ay. 
For    English   shores  he  shaped  the 

vessel's  course ; 
And  ten  years  absent  saw  her  landed 

now. 
With  thirteen  summers  on  her  maiden 

brow. 

And  so  he  journeyed  with  her,  far  in- 
land, 
Down  quiet  lanes,  by  hedges  gemmed 
with  dew. 

Where  wonders  met  her  eye  on  every 
hand, 
And  all  was  beautiful  and  strange  and 
new  — 

All,    from    the   forest   trees  in  stately 
ranks. 

To  yellow   cowslips  trembling  on  th* 
banks. 


MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC. 


263 


All  new  —  the  long-drawn  slope  of  even- 
ing shades 
The    sweet    solemnities    of    waxing 
light, 

The   white-haired   boys,    the   blushing 
rustic  maids, 
The    ruddy   gleam   through   cottage 
casements  bright, 

The  green  of  pastures,  bloom  of  garden 
nooks. 

And  endless   bubbling   of   the   water- 
brooks. 

So  far  he  took  them  on  through  this 
green  land. 
The  maiden  and  her  nurse,  till  jour- 
neying 

They  saw  at  last  a  peaceful  city  stand 
On  a  steep  mount,  and  heard  its  clear 
bells  ring. 

High  were   the  towers  and  rich  with 
ancient  state, 

In  its  old  wall  enclosed  and  massive 
gate. 

There  dwelt  a  worthy  matron  whom  he 

knew, 
To  whom  in  time  of  war  he  gave 

good  aid. 
Shielding  her  household  from  theplunT 

dering  crew 
When    neither  law   could    bind   nor 

worth  persuade : 
And  to  her  house  he  brought  his  care 

and  pride, 
Aweary  with  the  way  and  sleepy-eyed. 

And  he,  the  man  whom  she  was  fain  to 
serve. 
Delayed  not   shortly  his  request  to 
make. 

Which  was,  if  aught  of  her  he  did  de- 
serve, 
To  take  the  maid,  and  rear  her  for 
his  sake. 

To  guard  her  youth,  and  let  her  breed- 
ing be 

In  womanly  reserve  and  modesty. 

And  that  same  night  into  the  house  he 
brought 
The  costly  fruits  of  all  his  voyages  — 


Rich  Indian  gems  of  wandering  crafts- 
men wrought. 
Long   ropes  of  pearls  from   Persian 
palaces. 

With  ingots  pure  and  coins  of  Venice 
mould. 

And  silver  bars  and  bags  of  Spanish 
gold ; 

And    costly    merchandise    of    far-oflF 

lands, 
And    golden    stuffs    and    shawls    of 

Eastern  dye. 
He  gave   them   over  to  the  matron's 

hands. 
With    jewelled  gauds,   and    toys  of 

ivory, 
To  be  her  dower  on  whom  his  love  wa? 

set,  — 
His  dearest  child,  fair  Madam  Margar 

ret. 

Then  he  entreated,  that  if  he  should 

die. 
She  would   not  cease  her  guardian 

mission  mild. 
Awhile,  as  undecided,  lingered  nigh, 
Beside    the    pillow    of  the   sleeping 

child. 
Severed  one  wandering  lock  of  wavy 

hair, 
Took   horse  that  night,   and    left  her 

unaware. 

And    it   was    long    before    he    carrie 

again  — 
So  long  that  Margaret  was  woman 

grown ; 
And  oft  she  wished  for  his  return  in 

vain. 
Calling  him  softly  in  an  undertone  ; 
Repeating  words  that  he  had  said  the 

while. 
And    striving    to   recall   his  look   and 

smile. 

If  she  had  known  —  oh,  if  she  could 
have  known  — 
The  toils,  the  hardships  of  those  ab- 
sent years  — 

How  bitter  thraldom  forced  the  unwill- 
ing groan  — 


264 


THE    TWO  MARGARETS. 


How  slavery    \\Tung    out    subduing 

tears, 
Not  calmly  had  she  passed  her  hours 

away, 
Chiding  half  pettishly  the  long  delay. 

But  she  was  spared.     She  knew  no 
sense  of  harm, 
While  the  red  flames  ascended  from 
the  deck ; 

Saw  not  the  pirate  band  the  crew  dis- 
arm, 
Mourned  not  the  floating  spars,  the 
smoking  wreck. 

She  did  not  dream,  and  there  was  none 
to  tell 

That  fetters  bound  the  hands  she  loved 
so  well. 

Sweet  Margaret  —  withdrawn  from  hu- 
man view. 
She   spent   long  hours  beneath  the 
cedar  shade, 

The  stately  trees  that  in  the  garden 
grew, 
And,  overtwined,  a  towering  shelter 
made  ; 

She    mused    among    the  flowers,  and 
birds,  and  bees. 

In  windmg  walks,  and  bowering  cano- 
pies; 

Or  wandered  slowly  through   the  an- 
cient rooms, 
Where  oriel  windows  shed  their  rain- 
bow gleams ; 

And  tapestried  hangings,  wrought    in 
Flemish  looms, 
Displayed   the   story   of   King  Pha- 
raoh's dreams ; 

And,  come  at  noon  because  the  well 
was  deep. 

Beautiful    Rachel    leading    down    her 
sheep. 

At    last    she    reached    the   bloom  of 
womanhood, 
After  five  summers  spent  in  growing 
fair ; 
Her  face  betokened  all  things  dear  and 
good, 
The  light  of  somewhat  yet  to  come 
was  there 


Asleep,  and  waiting  for  the   opening 

day. 
When  childish  thoughts,  Hke  flowers, 

would  drift  away. 

O!  we  are  far  too  happy  while   they 
last; 
We  have  our  good  things  first,  and 
they  cost  naught ; 

Then  the  new  splendor  comes  unfath- 
omed,  vast, 
A  costly  trouble,   ay,   a  sumptuous 
thought. 

And  will  not  wait,  and  cannot  be  pos- 
sessed, 

Though  infinite  yearnings  fold  it  to  the 
breast. 

And    time,    that    seemed    so  long,  is 

fleeting  by, 
And  life  is  more  than  life  ;  love  mora 

than  love ; 
We  have  not  found  the   whole  —  and 

we  must  die  — 
And  still  the  unclasped  glory  floats 

above. 
The  inmost  and  the  utmost  faint  from 

sight. 
For  ever  secret  in  their  veil  of  light. 

Be  not  too  hasty  in  your  flow,   you 
rhymes. 
For  Margaret  is  in  her  garden  bower ; 

Delay    to    ring,    you    soft    cithedral 
chimes, 
And  tell  not  out  too  soon  the  noon- 
tide hour: 

For  one  draws  nearer  to  your  ancient 
town, 

On  the  green  mount  down  settled  like 
a  crown. 

He  jourreyed  on,  and,  as  he  neared  the 

gate, 
He  met  with  one  to  whom  he  named 

the  maid. 
Inquiring  of  her  welfare,  and  her  state. 
And  of  the   matron  in  whose  house 

she  stayed. 
"The   maiden   dwelt   there  yet,"   the 

townsman  said  ; 
"But,  for  the  ancient  lady,  —  she  was 

dead." 


MARGARET  IN   THE  XEBEC. 


265 


He   further   said,   she    was    but   little 

known, 
Although  reputed  to  be  very  fair, 
And  little   seen  (so  much   she    dwelt 

a' one) 
But  with  her  nurse  at  stated  morning 

prayer ; 
So  seldom  passed  her  sheltering  garden 

wall, 
Or  left  the  gate  at  quiet  evening  fall. 

Flow  softly,   rhymes  —  his  hand  is  on 
the  door  ; 
Ring  out,  ye  noonday  bells,  his  wel- 
coming — 

"  He  went  out  rich,  but  he  returneth 
poor;" 
And  strong  —  now  something  bowed 
with  suffering ; 

And  on  his  brow  are  traced  long  fur- 
rowed lines, 

Earned  in  the  fight  with  pirate  Alger- 
ines. 

Her  aged  nurse  comes  hobbling  at  his 

call ; 
Lifts  up  her  withered  hand  in  dull 

surprise. 
And,  tottering,  leads  him  through  the 

pillared  hall ; 
"What!    come  at  last  to  bless  my 

lady's  eyes ! 
Dear  heart,  sweet  heart,  she's  grown  a 

likesome  maid  — 
Go,  seek  her  where  she  sitteth  in  the 

shade." 

The  noonday  chime  had  ceased  —  she 
did  not  know 
Who  watched  her,  while  her  ring- 
doves fluttered  near : 

While,  under  the  green  boughs,  in  ac- 
cents low 
She  sang  unto  herself.     She  did  not 
hear 

His  footstep  till  she  turned,  then  rose 
to  meet 

Her  guest   with   guileless    blush    and 
wonder  sweet. 

But   soon   she  knew   him,   came  with 
quickened  pace, 
And  put  her  gentle  hands  about  his 
neck  ; 


And  leaned  her  fair  cheek  to  his  sun- 
burned face. 
As  long  ago  upon  the  vessel's  deck  : 
As  long  ago  she  did  in  twilight  deep. 
When  heaving  waters  lulled  her  infant 
sleep. 

So  then  he  kissed  her,  as  men  kiss  their 
own, 
And,  proudly  parting  her  unbraided 
hair. 

He  said :   "  I  did  not  think  to  see  thee 

grown 
fSo  fair  a  womanj"  —  but  a  touch  of 
care 

The  deep-toned  voice  through  its  ca- 
ressing kept. 

And,  hearing  it,  she  turned  away  and 
wept. 

Wept,  —  for  an  impress  on  the  face  she 
viewed  — ■ 
The  stamp   of  feelings  she  remem- 
bered not ; 

His  voice  was  calmer  now,  but  more 
subdued. 
Not  like  tlie  voice  long  loved  and  un- 
forgot ! 

She  felt  strange  sorrow  and  delightful 
pain  — 

Grief  for  the  change,  joy  that  he  came 
again. 

O  pleasant  days,  that  followed  his  re- 
turn. 
That  made  his  captive  years  pass  out 
of  mind; 

If  life  had  yet  new  pains  for  him  to 
learn. 
Not  in  the  maid's  clear  eyes  he  saw- 
it  shrined  ; 

And  three  full  weeks  he  stayed  with 
her,  content 

To  find  her  beautiful  and  innocent. 

It  was  all  one  in  his  contented  sight 
As  though  she  were  a  child,  till  sud- 
denly. 
Waked  of  the  chimes  in  the  dead  time 
of  the  night. 
He  fell   to   thinking    how    the    ur- 
gency 


266 


THE    TWO  MARGARETS. 


Of  Fate  had  dealt  with  him,  and  could 

but  sigh 
For   those   best   things   wherein    she 

passed  him  by. 

Down  the  long  river  of  life  how,  cast 

adrift, 
She  urged  him  on,  still  on,  to  sink  or 

swim ; 
And  all  at  once,  as  if  a  veil  did  lift. 
In  the  dead  time  of  the  night,   and 

bare  to  him 
The  want  in  his  deep  soul,  he  looked, 

was  dumb, 
And  knew  himself,  and  knew  his  time 

was  come- 

In  the  dead  time  of  the  night  his  soul 
did  sound 
The  dark  sea  of  a  trouble  unforeseen. 

For  that  one  sweet  that  to  his  life  was 
bound 
Had  turned  into  a  want — a  misery 
keen: 

Was  born,  was  grown,   and  wounded 
sorely  cried 

All  'twixt  the  midnight  and  the  morn- 
ing tide. 

He  was  a  brave  man,  and  he  took  this 

thing 
And  cast  it  from  him  with  a  man's 

strong  hand ; 
And  that   next   morn,   with   no  sweet 

altering 
Of  mien,  beside  the  maid  he  took  his 

stand, 
And  copied  his  past  self  till  ebbing  day 
Paled  its  deep  western  blush,  and  died 

away. 

And  then  he  told  her  that  he  must  de- 
part 
Upon  the  morrow,  with  the  earliest 
light  ; 

And  it  displeased  and  pained  her  at  the 
heart. 
And  she  went  out  to  hide  her  from 
his  sight 

Aneath  the  cedar  trees,  where  dusk  was 
deep. 

And  be  apart  from  him  awhile  to  weep 


And  to  lament,  till,  suddenly  aware 
Of  steps,   she  started  up  as  fain  tc 

flee,^ 
And  met  him  in  the  moonlight  pacing 

there, 
Who   questioned  with  her  why  her 

tears  might  be. 
Till   she   did   answer  him,  all  red  for 

shame, 
"  Kind  sir,  I  weep  —  the  wanting  of  a 

name." 


"  A  name !  "  quoth  he,  and  sighed.     "  I 
never  knew 
Thy  father's  name  ;  but  many  a  stal- 
wart youth 

Would  give  thee  his,  dear  child,  and  his 
love  too. 
And  count  himself  a  happy  man  for- 
sooth. 

Is  there  none  here  who  thy  kind  thought 
hath  won?" 

But  she  did  falter,  and  made  answer, 
"  None." 


Then,    as    in    father-like    and    kindly 

mood. 
He  said,   "  Dear  daughter,  it  would 

please  me  well 
To  see  thee  wed  ;  for  know  it  is  not 

good 
That  a  t'air  woman  thus  alone  should 

dwell." 
She  said,   "  I  am  content  it  should  be 

so. 
If  when  you  journey  I  may  with  you 

go." 


This  when  he  heard,  he  thought,  right 

sick  at  heart, 
Must    I  withstand  myself,   and  also 

thee? 
Thou,  also  thou!    must  nobly  do  thy 

part; 
That  honor  leads  thee  on  which  holds 

back  me. 
No,  thou  sweet  woman  ;  by  love's  great 

increase, 
I  will  reject  th=e  for  thy  truer  peace. 


MARGARET  IN'  THE   XEBEC. 


2O7 


Then  said  he,  "  Lady  !  —  look  upon  my 
face ; 
Consider  well    this    scar    upon    my 
brow  ; 
I  have  had  all  misfortune  but  disgrace  ; 
I  do  not  look  for  marriage  blessings 
now. 
Be  not  thy  gratitude  deceived.     I  know 
Thou  think' St  it  is  thy  duty  —  I  will  go  ! 

"  I  read  thy  meaning,  and  I  go  from 
hence. 
Skilled  in   the  reason ;    though   my 
heart  be  rude, 

I  will  not  wrong  thy  gentle  innocence, 
Nor  take  advantage  of  thy  gratitude. 

But  think,  while  yet  the  light  these  eyes 
shall  bless. 

The  more  for  thee  —  of  woman's  noble- 
ness." 

Faultless   and  fair,  all  in   the  moony 

light. 
As  one  ashamed,  she  looked  upon 

the  ground. 
And  her  white  raiment  glistened  in  his 

sight. 
And,  hark !  the  vesper  chimes  began 

to  sound. 
Then  lower  yet  she  drooped  her  young, 

pure  cheek. 
And  still  was  she  ashamed,  and  could 

not  speak. 

A  swarm  of  bells  from  that  old  tower 

o'erhead, 
They    sent    their    message     sifting 

through  the  boughs 
Of  cedars ;  when  they  ceased  his  lady 

said, 
"  Pray   you  forgive    me,"   and    her 

lovely  brows 
She    lifted,   standing    in    her    moonlit 

place. 
And  one  short  moment  looked  him  in 

the  face. 

Then  straight  he  cried,  "  O  sweetheart, 

think  all  one 
As  no  word  yet  were  said  between  us 

twain, 
And  know  thou  that  in  this  I  yield  tp 

none  — 


I  love  thee,  sweetheart,  love  thee !  " 

so  full  fain, 
While  she  did  leave  to  silence  all  her 

part. 
He  took  the  gleaming  whiteness  to  his 

heart  — 

The  white-robed  maiden  with  the  warm 

white  throat. 
The  sweet  white  brow,  and  locks  of 

umber  flow, 
Whose    murnuiring  voice  was  soft   as 

rock-dove's  note. 
Entreating  him,  and  saying,  "  Do  not 

go!" 
"  I  will  not,  sweetheart ;  nay,  not  now," 

quoth  he, 
"  By  faith  and  troth,  I  think  thou  art 

for  me ! " 


And  so  she  won  a  name  that  eventide. 
Which    he   gave   gladly,    but  would 

ne'er  bespeak. 
And  she  became  the  rough  sea-captain's 

bride. 
Matching  her  dimples  to  his  sunburnt 

cheek  ; 
And  chasing  from  his  voice  the  touch  of 

care. 
That  made  her  weep  when  first   she 

heard  it  there. 


One  year  there  was,  fulfilled  of  happi- 
ness. 
But   O !    it    went  so  fast,    too    fast 
away. 

Then  came  that  trouble  which  full  oft 
doth  bless  — 
It  was  the  evening  of  a  sultry  day. 

There  was   no  wind  the  thread-hung 
flowers  to  stir, 

Or  float  abroad  the  filmy  gossamer. 


Toward  the  trees  his  steps  the  mariner 
bent. 
Pacing  the  grassy  walks  with  restless 
feet  : 
And  he  recalled,  and  pondered  as  he 
went, 
AU  her  most  duteous  love  and  con- 
verse sweet, 


268 


THE    TWO  MARGARETS. 


Till  summer  darkness  settled  deep  and 

dim, 
And  dew   from   bending  leaves  dropt 

down  on  liira. 

The  flowers    sent    forth  their  nightly 
odors  faint  — 
Thick  leaves  shut  out  the  starlight 
overhead ; 

While  he  told  over,  as  by  strong  con- 
straint 
Drawn  on,  her  childish  life  on  ship- 
board led. 

And  beauteous  youth,  since  first  low 
kneeling  there, 

With  folded  hands  she  lisped  her  even- 
ing prayer. 

Then  he  remembered  how,  beneath  the 

shade. 
She  wooed  him  to  her  with  her  lovely 

words. 
While  flowers  were  closing,  leaves  in 

moonlight  played. 
And  in  dark  nooks  withdrew  the  silent 

birds. 
So  pondered  he  that  night  in  twilight 

dim. 
While  dew  from  bending  leaves  dropt 

down  on  him. 

The    flowers   sent  forth   their    nightly 
odors  faint  — 
When,  in  the  darkness  waiting,   he 
saw  one 

To  whom  he  said  —  "  How  fareth  my 
sweet  saint  ? " 
Who  answered  —  "She   hath   borne 
to  you  a  son  ;  " 

Then,    turning,    left   him,  —  and    the 
father  said, 

"  God  rain  down  blessings  on  his  wel- 
come head !  " 

But,  Margaret !  —  sJie  never    saw    the 
child. 
Nor   heard  about   her  bed  love's 
mournful  wails  ; 
But  to  the  last,  with  ocean  dreams  be- 
guiled. 
Murmured     of    troubled     seas     and 
swelling  sails  — 


Of  weary  voyages,  and  rocks  unseen, 
And  distant  hills  in  sight,  all  calm  and 
green.  .   .   . 

-£Wos  and  alas !  —  the  times  of  sorrow 
come. 
And  make  us  doubt  if  we  were  ever 
glad! 
So  utterly  that  inner  voice  is  dumb. 
Whose  music  through  our  happy  days 
we  had ! 
So,  at  the  touch  of  grief,  without  our 

will. 
The  sweet  voice  drops  from  us,  and  all 
is  still. 

Woe   and  alas !    for  the   sea-captain's 

wife  — 
That   Margaret  who  in   the   Xebec 

played  — 
She   spent   upon   his  knee    her    baby 

life  ; 
Her  slumbering  head  upon  his  breast 

she  laid. 
How  shall  he  learn  alone  his  years  to 

pass? 
How  in  the  empty  house  ?  —  woe  and 

alas! 

She  died,  and  in  the  aisle,  the  minster 
aisle. 
They   made  her  grave ;   and  there, 
with  fond  intent. 

Her  husband  raised,  his  sorrow  to  be- 
guile, 
A  very  fair  and  stately  monument : 

Her  tomb  (the  careless  vergers  show  it 
yet). 

The  mariner's  wife,  his  love,  his  Mar- 
garet. 

A    woman's    figure,   with   the    eyelids 
c'osed. 
The  quiet  head  declined  in  slumber 
sweet ; 

Upon  an   anchor  one   fair    hand    re- 
posed. 
And  a  long  ensign  folded  at  her  feet. 

And  cai-ved  upon  the  bordering  of  her 
vest 

The  motto  of  her  house  —  "  !!]£  stbctf) 
rest." 


MARGARET  IN   THE   XEBEC. 


2'59 


There    is    an    ancient    window  richly 
fraught 
And  fretted  with  all  hues  most  rich, 
mo^5t  bright, 

And  in  its  upper  tracery  enwTought 
An    olive-branch    and    dove  wide- 
winged  and  white. 

An  emblem  meet  for  her,   the  tender 
dove. 

Her  heavenly  peace,  her  duteous  earthly 
love. 


Amid    heraldic    shields     and    banners 

set, 
In  twisted  knots  and  wildly-tangled 

bands, 
Crimson  and  green,  and  gold  and  violet. 
Fall  softly  on  the  snowy  sculptured 

hands ; 
And,   when   the   sunshine   comes,   full 

sweetly  rest 
The  dove  and  olive-branch  upon  her 

breast. 


NOTES 


"  The  Dreams  that  Came  True." 

Page  97. 
This  story  I  first  wrote  in  prose,  and  it  was  published  some  years  ago. 

"A  Story  of  Doom." 
Page  136. 

The  name  of  the  patriarch's  wife  is  intended  to  be  pronounced  Nigh-loi-ya. 

Of  the  three  sons  of  Noah  —  Shem,  Ham,  and  Japhet — I  have  called  Japhet 
the  youngest  (because  he  is  always  named  last),  and  liave  supposed  that,  in  the 
genealogies  where  he  is  called  "  Japhet  the  elder,"  he  may  have  received  the 
epithet  because  by  that  time  there  were  younger  Japhets. 

Page  168. 

The  quivering  butterflies  in  companies, 
That  slowly  crept  adown  the  sandy  marge, 
Like  living  crocus  beds. 

This  beautiful  comparison  is  taken  from  "  The  Naturalist  on  the  River  Ama- 
zons." "  Vast  numbers  of  orange-colored  butterflies  congregated  on  the  moist 
sands.  They  assembled  in  densely-packed  masses,  sometimes  two  or  three 
yards  in  circumference,  their  wings  all  held  in  an  upright  position,  so  that  the 
sands  looked  as  though  variegated  with  beds  of  crocusesP 


272  JVOTES. 

"Gladys  and  her  Island" 

Pa^e  1 89. 

The  woman  is  Imagination  ;  she  is  brooding  over  what  she  brought  forth. 
The  two  purple  peaks  represent  the  domains  of  Poetry  and  of  History. 
The  girl  is  Fancy. 

"  Winstanley." 

Page  210. 

This  ballad  was  intended  to  be  one  of  a  set,  and  was  read  to  the  children  in 

the  National  Schools  at  Sherborne,  Dorsetshire,  in  order  to  discover  whether, 

if  the  actions  of  a  hero  were  simply  and  plainly  narrated,  English  children  would 

like  to  leani  the  verses  recording  them  by  heart,  as  their  forefathers  did. 


Cambridge:    Press  of  John  Wilson  and  Son. 


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